Fates Intertwined
by SpadesJade
Summary: A new sequel to Lost In Space. Starts up two weeks after the last scene in LiS. Vincent has unfinished business and Callie has hard choices to make, and a therapist. Wouldn't you? Guest starring Jackson Rippner from Red Eye. He he...
1. Shadow On The Sun

Disclaimer – the usual

Disclaimer – the usual. It's been a long time but I'm sure you remember.

HEY!! I'm back! I know I got a lot of flack for taking down "To Live Or To Die," but I didn't like it anymore. It was too rushed. There were some good things about it, and some stuff I'll keep – as you'll be able to see from the first chapter – but there were some flaws that I just couldn't live with, so down it came. And you'll be seeing familiar things and new things, new perspectives and old perspectives. I don't know if anybody even cares anymore. I kinda feel like I was one of the first people in this section to begin with, and I'm one of the last to leave. It's been a while, I'm a bit rusty, but when Vincent comes to visit, especially after a long absence, he's a hard muse to ignore. And I'm not talking about the gun, either. LOL

All right, this is going to move slow. And I don't know how often I'll be able to update, between work and everything, but if I get a bunch of hits and some nice reviews I may pick up the pace. Good reviews encourage the author! They also have a tendency to go to her head, so I'll try to avoid that pitfall.

Every chapter is going to be named after a song I think applies to the story. So without further ado – here we go!

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Chapter One – Shadow On The Sun

Peter made his way along the beach. Vincent's home was tucked away in the edges of the thick jungle that lined the Thai beach. Songklah was his home, but he'd never been here for this long. He'd never gone this long without a job. And it worried him.

Peter never worried. It wasn't in his creed.

The sun had just set and the colors of the clouds were a brilliant, dazzling display of beauty. During the day, most everyone stayed inside, daunted by the heat and humidity. By sunset things became cooler, and the Night Market opened, and people danced and sang and drank and made love.

Vincent sat in his lounging chair, legs up, a cold drink at his side. He was dressed in shades of beige, almost to blend in with the sand around him. His eyes were covered by his expensive and custom-made sunglasses, but he knew that Peter was there. Peter saw it in the slight incline of his head.

"Have a seat," Vincent said in a conversational tone, when Peter was close enough. He did, watching the rest of the fading glory of nature.

"So how are you?" Peter asked in his muted British accent.

Vincent gave him one of his subdued grins. He didn't look at him, just continued to watch the sunset through dark lenses. "How should I be?" he replied cryptically. Then, he pushed the glasses back so that they perched above his crown of silvered brown hair, and finally gave Peter a look. "I mean, that's why you're here, isn't it? You think something is wrong."

Peter shrugged. There was no game playing with Vincent. He lived and died by manipulation and knew every single trick. Either this conversation was going to be straight up or it wasn't going to happen at all. "You know, personally, I don't care," he said. "I mean, I don't care about anything. But truth be told, Vincent, you and I are the closest thing either of us has in the world to anything even remotely resembling family. So it would just defy the basis of human nature if I didn't show you some concern."

"I'm fine," Vincent said, although it was clipped.

"Oh, yes, you're fine." Peter knew he was going where no one else dared to go. Nobody spoke to Vincent like this, if they didn't want a gun in their face, or at least a few broken ribs. "You're always fine, just like me. And I wouldn't begin to argue the point with you. However, it has been a marked two weeks since you've taken a job. And that is a break in your routine. You never go more than a week, not in the last half dozen years, without a job. So I came looking for you. Isn't that what I should have done? Isn't that what you expected?"

Vincent gave a barely perceptible nod. "So you're saying I wanted you to come here."

"Maybe you did. I would say that you're only human, but we both know you aren't." These words were spoken in a sigh, almost dismissively. No big deal. "I would really like to hear your excuse, however. I'm sure it will provide my empty life with some genuine amusement."

That did manage to get a smile from him. And a bit of a chuckle. "And thus we come to the point. You're here because you're bored."

"And your timing was perfect," Peter supplied. A pause descended between them, both waiting for the other to speak again. It was Peter who said the most dangerous thing to say. "You're still thinking about her, aren't you?"

Vincent's smile, already faded, disappeared entirely as his jaw tightened. Then he pursed his lips and gave a little jerk with his chin – a nervous gesture that Peter knew better than anyone. He was thinking of exactly the right thing to say.

"Well," and Vincent's voice was very, very careful, "it's simply good workmanship to review a job. Spot the flaws. Learn how to avoid future mistakes."

Peter rumbled in his throat. Vincent's _mistake_ had been very bad for business. Luckily, Annie Farrell would never practice law again. She'd be lucky to walk and talk. Still, for Vincent's perfect marksmanship to have taken a dent like that meant one of two things – the silver fox was losing it, or he had been distracted.

And then the unpleasant third option. He'd done it on purpose.

"That's good, I suppose," Peter said, nonchalant. "Perhaps it will come in handy for your next job."

Vincent quirked an eyebrow. "I haven't agreed to any next job," he pointed out.

Peter felt a mild ripple of surprise. "So does that mean you're not planning on ever taking one? Vincent, if you're thinking of retiring, it would have been best to tell me."

Vincent gave a twitch of a shrug. "I'm still thinking about it."

All right, enough was enough. It was bad that the job had made the papers. The Attorney General's office in Los Angeles made so many ripples over the death of its witnesses that it had made the national news stream, and Felix Reyes-Torrena had gone from local infamy to world-wide. For Vincent to walk away now would mean he would retire in disgrace. And pride, Vincent's or his own, didn't allow that.

Furthermore, Felix was pissed. Sure, Annie was out of the picture, but she wasn't dead. And worse, ever so much worse, Calliope Fanning was alive. Vincent should have killed her, he should never have let her walk away from him with knowledge of his existence. And yet, foolishly, he'd let her live. Not out of some slip up, some mistake that could happen in situations like that, but deliberately and consciously.

"I've never in the last six years ever made you do anything you didn't want to do," Peter said, his voice friendly but firm, "but I'm afraid that I must insist that you take this next job."

"And what job is that?" He sounded bored, but Peter knew it was to cover up his annoyance.

Peter produced a plain, unmarked envelope from his jacket pocket and set it on the table beside the drink Vincent had not touched. Vincent looked down at it, and then up at Peter.

With a cocky smile, Peter asked, "Would you like to open your present or have me spoil the surprise?"

Vincent frowned at him, and then picked up the envelope. With this thumb he split the top open, reached inside, and her picture came out.

Nobody but Peter would have ever caught Vincent's reaction. But then the hit-man said, "She looks exactly the same." Under his breath, almost to himself.

Peter sighed. "Look, I, of all people, understand eccentricities. I've lived my life on them. You, however, have not, which is what makes this difficult. Felix wants you to fix your mistake. He claims he's giving you a chance. I made it clear that she was not on the list he'd given us, and he accepted that, but made it clear that if I wished to continue conducting business, he would take care of this matter. Now, personally, I don't care. He can threaten me all he likes, and if he becomes a nuisance I could easily send someone after him. I'm bigger and I have more power, and he knows it. He's gotten a bit too full of himself with this world-known-name nonsense. However, it would be foolish of me to ignore it and think I could continue with business as usual. And I hate hassles. So I told him that if your performance was questionable, I could send someone else, someone very good, to solve this matter to his satisfaction."

Vincent straightened in his chair. It made Peter feel a pang, deep in his heart. It was unusual for him to pity anyone, but Vincent was perhaps the only other human being in the world who he felt was worthy of it.

"I have not done this yet," Peter went on smoothly. "I wanted to speak with you first."

"Who would you send?" Vincent asked.

A grin quirked the corner of Peter's mouth. "Rochester."

Vincent bridled. "You can't be—"

"Vincent, you made a choice. Now I have to make mine. You didn't think your actions wouldn't have repercussions, did you? You of all people know how fates intertwine. In spite of your creed, people do notice certain things. They notice when a woman survives driving a taxi cab for a hit man, no matter how indiscernible he was, and especially when that woman has a rather sensational story. I've heard rumors of her writing a book. I'm attempting to have them investigated, see if there's something I can do, pay her off, keep her from publishing."

"That should be easy for you," Vincent said, although his tone was anxious.

"True. But there is the matter of Felix. So, I give you a choice, now. You can take this job and finish what you started. Or, you can retire. And do whatever the damn hell you please." He said this with a knowing smile.

Vincent frowned. "As in?"

Peter sighed. "Sometimes you are very thick. You can take the job, kill Calliope Fanning, and either retire or continue, your choice, with no black mark on your record. Or, you can retire now – or go rogue, if you wish to be more colorful about it – and go and save her. Or you could just do nothing, continue to sit on this beach and watch as many sunsets as you please."

Vincent didn't speak for the longest time. Peter waited, patiently, giving him time to think. More than likely, he wasn't going to get an answer today, but Vincent's life had been about making quick decisions that had to be right. It was one of the reasons he was still alive.

"Why would I want to save her?" Vincent finally said.

Peter clucked his tongue. "You let her live to begin with, Vincent. You're fortunate that I'm the only one who knows what that means. You liked her."

"Maybe, but why would I risk so much for her?"

"I don't know. But once a man shows one eccentricity, it's inevitable that he'll show more. I'm not judging you, Vincent. I would be the last one to ever do that. Whichever of these choices you make, nothing will change between you and I."

Vincent ducked his head a bit. Peter knew it was the closest he'd ever get to seeing his appreciation. Peter understood. He was not one for shows of emotion either.

"If I decide to save her," Vincent said, "you won't be angry about Rochester?"

"Of course not," Peter chuckled. "Of course, I'll also never give you a job again. Hence, the retirement. But that shouldn't be a problem, should it?"

"No," Vincent agreed. "And I guess I won't hold it against you either if he kills me."

"No," Peter agreed. "I'm going to have to tell him, however, that I offered the job to you first. So he might be expecting you. Just to make it fair. I can't let things be too easy for you, can I?"

Vincent chuckled. "No, you can't. But why Rochester? Why not Berk or Sam?"

"Because I have to make it look good," Peter said. "That, and Rochester annoyed me last week."

"How?"

"Shot off his mouth about going into business for himself to a competitor of mine. He's very smart, Vincent. You'll have to kill him if you expect to ever have a moment's peace in your life again."

"Or you," Vincent pointed out. "You never cease to amaze me with your cleverness."

"It's so much easier to let the dogs finish each other off," Peter agreed.

"Is that what I am to you? A dog?"

Peter just looked at him. Vincent laughed.

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All right, if you want more, anybody out there had better review! I'll wait!


	2. Daughters

Disclaimer: What? I don't know Vincent? But I have this receipt….

Vincent: What is that? Gimmie that. (_He snatches the receipt_)

Me: I got a thirty-five percent discount.

Vincent: That's not for me. That's for the job. Stupid Max, giving away my money…

Me: Well, I guess this day just sucks for you. You're not even in this chapter.

Vincent: What? You think these people read this stuff for your interesting characters? Or worse, for that Ray guy?

Me: Ah, well…maybe. But I know that some people will be happy to know that Jackson Rippner makes a kind-of-cameo.

Vincent: (_bridling_) Rippner? That idiot I caught in that other writer's room? You are not telling me that he's—

Me: Hey, you took off! Grabbed old whats-her-name and disappeared into the closet! You left me alone with him! You get what you pay for, toots!

Vincent: (_dangerously_) Call me toots again.

Me: Toots. Why, what are you going to do? You want to see the end of this fanfic, buddy, you'd better me nice to me.

Vincent: Sure, I'll be nice. Just wait until the fanfic is over, and I'll show you how nice I am.

Me: Ah…uh. (_uncomfortable_) Okay, well, I guess that's your cue (to the reader) to read on. And I hope I'm alive when this is over.

_Vincent just smiles wickedly._

(If you're confused, go read a story in this section called "Not The Type," about chapter three or four or so. Actually, read the whole thing, it's pretty good)

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Chapter Two – Daughters

Callie had nightmares.

Dr. Gregg told her that it was normal. Dr. Martinez reassured her that they would fade with time. But it didn't make them less painful. Or less terrifying.

Some nights, she was driving the cab, and he was in the back seat. Those always lasted the longest. He was talking to her, about things, she couldn't remember. Just having a rambling conversation. They would argue, share things about themselves. She couldn't turn around, only glimpse him in the mirror. His voice was clear and distinct, as if right against her ear. It always broke down into a fight. These dreams would always end with her spinning the cab, and as it spun, her adrenaline surged and her body woke up.

Others, it was in the jazz club. She was sitting at a table, waiting for him to come back. When he did appear, he walked around, indiscriminately shooting people in the face. Everyone screamed around her, but she couldn't get away. She was tied to the seat, and when he finally reached her table, he wanted to pretend that everything was fine. She would get herself loose and he would chase her out into the street, where he would press her up against the wall, start kissing her, and then strangle her. Her inability to breathe was what would jar her from those dreams, and always with a sore throat.

The third one, however, was the worst. That was the one on the train. She was always crying hysterically in that one, running and screaming and begging Vincent to stop chasing them. Annie was in front of her, and sometimes Vincent would shoot Annie in the back of the head, and sometimes he would miss – it depended on the variety of the dream – and always they were running from car to car, a never ending stream of them, one to another. The train would stop and they couldn't get off, and then it would start again and they'd be running, endlessly running. That dream was the hardest to wake from because it just went on and on. Nothing stopped it.

She hadn't fully realized how badly that night had affected her. Even when Vincent disappeared through the security gate, she still felt him hanging over her. A ghost. She barely remembered digging out her cellular phone – she had to turn it back on and wait for a signal, as Vincent had turned it off after Ray called her that last time, bugging her about visiting her father – and no memory at all of the ride back into town. Her first clear memory was of hearing that Annie Farrell wasn't dead.

It didn't matter, Callie told herself. It didn't soothe her guilt one drop.

Sure, they tried to give her credit. One of the first things that Callie had told Ray was that Vincent had shot Annie, on the blue line going into Long Beach, and it was this information that allowed them to get to Annie in time to save her life. But she lay in a comatose state, and the doctors said that her condition did not give any hope for a full recovery. She was going to be lucky if she could talk again, let alone practice law. Vincent may as well have killed her, for all the good her surviving did.

Callie knew, rationally, that it wasn't her fault. Dr. Martinez told her that on the correct occasions, when it would penetrate into her brain. Vincent had been given the contract, Vincent had wreaked his havoc across the landscape of the city. She was an innocent bystander, sucked into his deadly game. But she had tried to rescue Annie. She had tried so hard, and she'd failed.

Vincent was a killer. Machine-like, cold blooded, ruthless. Dr. Martinez told her that it had only endangered her own life to thwart him the way she had, and that she was lucky to be alive. She could not take responsibility for Annie.

Callie heard it. She said she believed it. She wanted to. But somehow, she didn't.

Truth be told, she much preferred to talk to Laurie.

Her father, Ray Sr., had once been a cop, like her brother. Difference was, her brother liked being a cop, and her father had done it because it was what he was good at. When the opportunity for retirement came, he had taken it without hesitation, and there was no going back for him. He didn't miss it one bit. But during his time with the L.A.P.D., he'd made a few friends, and Dr. Laurence Gregg was one of them. Originally, Gregg had worked as a police shrink, the kind who worked over criminals, determined their mental states. While Laurie, as all his friends called him, had loved his job, the draw for bigger and better things was heavy, and before he knew it he was running an institute for the criminally insane.

Laurie was a good fifteen years her senior, but there was something youthful about him that drew her to him. Tall, lanky and mildly grizzled, with thick, graying brown hair that curled at the nape of his neck and facial hair that was barely kept neat, he walked with a cane, which he didn't hesitate to swing at people who annoyed him, because his right leg had been mangled in a car wreck when he was sixteen, and he had never fully regained its use. His humor was quick and cutting. He was brilliant, and he was always right, which made most people hold the opinion of him that he was an arrogant asshole.

The night Ray had brought her home from the airport, after the police station and then the hospital, she had charged into her father's arms. The sweet relief of being home had overpowered any urge she had had to play it cool. While she told Ray vehemently that she didn't want her father to know what happened, it came out. There was no help for it. And Ray Sr.'s first reaction had been to get her to a therapist.

Callie tried to fight. She claimed she was fine, but her father saw through her easily. She agreed to move back into the house and out of student housing on her college campus, and take a few days off from school, and even quit her job – she could never drive a cab again, she knew that. Then she locked herself in her room for three days, appearing only bleary-eyed through a partially opened door to accept trays of food, and when she came out, she had a two hundred page manuscript under one arm. She wouldn't let her father read it, although he wanted to. It was a detailed and intimate description of that night. Ten hours of hell. Ten hours of Vincent.

Still, she wouldn't go see a shrink.

Ray Sr., who was rather cunning, more so than either of his children gave him credit for, told her that she should consider one of the offers that were coming in. People wanted her story. She was the next movie of the week; she could be on networks or even on the big screen. He knew perfectly well that these things not only did not appeal, they repulsed her. But still, the offers came, and they were pestered until Ray Sr. considered selling the house and changing their phone number to unlisted.

If she had put so much work into writing about that awful night, her father pointed out, she should do something with it. Put these hounds to rest. And he knew someone who could help her.

And that was how she met Laurie.

A few days with Laurie had helped her come to a few conclusions. First off, she did need a shrink. He set her up with one of the women on his staff, a particularly talented woman by the name of Guadalupe Martinez, known as Lupe to her later on. And second, she did need to write a book, but not alone. He would take her under his wing. He had the know-how and experience to help her, and he didn't even want publishing credit, merely to be mentioned as one of her advisors. And slowly, the next week evolved into something resembling a real life again.

There were days with Laurie when they worked for six, seven hours straight. And then there were days like today, when Laurie came to the house, and they spent the middle afternoon hours in the living room of her father's house, psychoanalyzing the weirdos on the Steve Wilkos show.

"He's lying," Laurie said. He was sitting, his bad leg up on the couch, his other on the floor, giving him a sprawled appearance, the exactly same place she had sat that night. She was in her father's place, in his favorite chair.

"He's not blinking," Callie pointed out. "I mean, he's straight faced."

"Yeah, but look at that face," Laurie argued. "I mean, look at it."

Callie squinted. The particular participant, as they were known, was a man with little hair on his head but a great amount of it on his chin, frizzy curling masses of red on either cheek. He was young, maybe her age, maybe a bit older, and he'd just been accused of child molestation.

"Why do people agree to this stuff?" Ray Sr. asked as he entered the room. Even though he was retired, he still looked and smelled like a cop. He had thin brown hair, pushed back like his son wore his, a craggy face, and the wide blue eyes his daughter had inherited from him. Ray Jr. had somehow gotten brown ones, which was a bit of a genetic anomaly. He was in black pants and a white button down shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. If he'd been wearing a tie it would have looked like he was heading to work.

"Money," Laurie quipped dryly. "People do all kinds of humiliating things for money."

Callie flinched. "_I'm_ not going to have to go on one of those things, am I?"

Laurie turned and looked at her. Her tone, which before had been lighthearted, had sudden cooled into a somber one. She'd been approached, he knew that much. Oprah, Maury, Dr. Phil…they all wanted to interview her. Even Sixty Minutes had given them a call.

"You know you don't have to do anything you don't want to," Ray Sr. said, his mildly gruff voice reassuring. Callie looked a bit relieved, but not much.

"All right, I have to get back to work," she said, standing up. "That paper isn't going to write itself."

"Hang in there, only a few weeks to go," Laurie said. He stood up, stretched and turned off the television.

Callie gave him a mildly amused grin over one shoulder, made her way down the hallway to the spare room her father was letting her use as a private study, and shut the door softly.

"Thanks again for helping her out," Ray Sr. said as Laurie limped into the kitchen, cane firmly clenched in his hand. "I don't know if that old wacko in the psych department would have let her write that paper if you hadn't strong-armed him."

Laurie nodded, looking down. Raymond Fanning was older than him by twenty five years – when he'd started with the L.A.P.D. he'd been a fresh-faced naïve little punk who thought he knew everything. Ray had been quick to show him he didn't. And from what he'd heard, Ray Jr. had inherited the same kind of wisdom, the knack for following procedure and always getting it right. There was a lot to be said for doing things by the book. Even though Laurie still allowed that certain amount of rebellion. Perhaps Callie was more like her mother. He'd only met her a few times, and hadn't even met Callie until all this unfortunate mess had happened.

"I wanted to talk to you," Laurie said, moving deeper into the kitchen. He watched as Ray Sr. went into his routine of sandwich making. He was a master at it, no doubt. The older man paused, however, at the tone of Laurie's voice.

"What is it?"

"I was approached by someone," Laurie said, seeming a touch uncomfortable. He shrugged it off – Ray had a right to know, it was too important. "It seems that some people have taken interest in the world Callie is doing…that I'm doing with her."

Ray grunted. "Well, she's been given pretty specific instructions not to talk to anyone yet, not until the Justice department gets done with her," he reminded him. "You know you can't get your book published without the all clear from them."

"True, but we can field some offers," Laurie mused. "I just have some concerns, Ray. About her safety."

"My son is already way ahead of you," Ray Sr. assured him. "He recommended some private muscle. We're going to be talking to some guys tomorrow."

Laurie nodded. "Good. But…" It bugged him. That conversation over the phone bugged him.

"What is it?" Ray pressed.

"I got a phone call yesterday evening at my house. A man named Jackson Rippner. He said he represented some people who were interested in purchasing Callie's story. I asked him if he was a publisher, but he said he wasn't. He implied that it might be better for everyone concerned, especially Callie, if the whole ugly matter just went away. He said they understood that she had suffered considerably and they were willing to compensate her financially. He even named some numbers, and…" Laurie paused, feeling awkward. "They were considerable."

Ray's eyes had narrowed at him. "Did they threaten her?" he asked, his voice tense.

"Not outright," Laurie said. "I had some feelings like this when you came to me, Ray. All this business with the Torrena indictment. I'm surprised they haven't put Callie in witness protection."

"The D.A. told me," Ray said, struggling to keep his tone calm, "that if they could figure out a way to use her, it might come to that." He suddenly looked pale, much older than 65. "If that happened, I'd go with her, you know."

Laurie nodded again. "I know. I'm just worried that she's already a target. Maybe you want to get someone in sooner."

Ray suddenly brightened. "Hey, look, I know that this might sound nuts, but…do you think maybe she could stay at the institute?"

Laurie scowled for a moment. St. Anthony's Institute for the Criminally Insane, known affectionately by some and not-so-affectionately by others as "Crazy Ant's," hardly seemed like a bright, happy place where Callie would feel comfortable. "Why?" he rasped.

"Well, first of all, I know you have some staff rooms, places for people to stay and be comfortable, some for your resident doctors, so it's not that far-fetched that she'd be comfortable there. Second, it's secure, isn't it? I mean, it's guarded like a prison."

"To keep people in, not out," Laurie said. "You want to throw her into a building with some of the worst nutjobs in L.A.?"

"You could stay with her, help her finish her work, get her college degrees settled, get this book written…it'd be safer than her staying here. Ray and I have been taking turns around the clock, he's got a couple of his friends helping too, but even if we hire armed guards, I still don't feel safe."

"So putting her in a prison will make _you_ feel safe," Laurie said dryly.

"She wouldn't be in a prison and you know it. Some of your facilities make the Hilton look shabby."

Laurie chuckled. "In the executive wing, I guess that's true. I don't know, Ray, I'd have to pull strings, and it'd be improper for me to use the institute's resources for personal reasons--"

"Screw improper," Ray said, slapping his open hand on the counter top. "Forgive me if I get a little reckless when it comes to protecting my daughter."

Laurie considered him thoughtfully. "I could arrange an early internship. There might be a few things I could do. Give me a couple of days. In the meantime, get your security. You'll want to have them at the house, anyway, whether she's here or not, to protect yourself. These people don't respect family."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Ray sighed, weary. "I never liked my job, you know that? I did it for thirty-odd years and I didn't like a single damn thing about it. Know why? I hate criminals. I mean, they just turn my stomach. Car jackers, robbers, burglars, rapists, murderers…I don't know where my kids get the fascination for it from. Not from me, that's for sure." He paused. "I can't believe that man had the nerve to come into my house and terrorize my baby girl right in front of me."

Laurie didn't say anything, just looked at Ray, sympathetic.

"I'd like to get his gun away from him and get him into a closet for five minutes alone," the older man finished with a growl. "Show him what it's like to have someone bigger than you treat you like a punching bag."

Laurie winced. It was just as well that Ray was retired. He may have been a good cop, but he had no understanding for psychology. Someone like Vincent, from what Callie had told him, had probably already had that done to him, when he was young. By a father or an uncle or even an older brother. People who embraced violence usually did so because they wanted to prevent violence from happening to them.

That was his theory, anyway.

"All right, I'll be in touch," Laurie said, and limped out his exit.

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"Dad would kill you if he knew about this."

Callie pulled the gun from the holster secured to her belt. It had long since been made to fit comfortably – she was used to its weight, used to the sleek silver and black instrument inside of it that slid out and into her hand. Her palm no longer sweat as she held it. And her arm muscles no longer ached after firing. She was used to the recoil, used to the sound, used to the vibrating explosion as if it were happening right inside her own chest.

The first time she had fired this gun, she'd nearly wet her pants. She'd been shaking and nervous and looking at her brother pleadingly, not wanting to do this. Not like this, anyway. She knew weapons training would come at some time in her career, but Ray was insistent that it be now.

"You can't have a concealed weapons permit if you don't know how to handle a weapon," he said.

Her first shot had been miles off target. The recoil had gone down into her knees. Her stomach ached and she threw up afterwards. Ray wouldn't let her eat lunch until practice was over after that.

A few days later, it was gone.

The nightmares fed her, she knew. Whenever she didn't want to go to practice, she would just remember one of them, a moment, a flash. It was all she needed. She would never be a victim like that again. Never.

Now, she stood on the range, her right arm bent so that the elbow was flush against her ribs. Her left was also bent, only so that it cut across her chest, fingers of her left hand extended over the right one, shielding herself as the weapon fired six rounds, emptying the small clip, sending particles into the air toward her face. They scraped against her palm.

"Good, very good," Eddie said, coming around. He waited until she had holstered her weapon before walking to the target at the end of the range. The bullets were neatly clustered in the middle. "You're a natural."

"No, I've been doing this every day for almost eight days now," she said. "I'm just a fast learner."

Ray came around, dressed down in his jeans and white T-shirt, his own gun holstered to his hip. "Don't think it's going to end anytime soon," he told her in a low-key voice.

"Well, you'd better use public ranges from now on," Eddie said, coming over to them with the target neatly rolled up. "Here, for your bedroom wall," he said, handing it to her. "Yesterday, Daniels was asking about what we were doing here every day. He wanted to talk to you, Ray, but I told him it was your day off."

Ray chuckled. "Well, I guess it couldn't last forever. But I appreciate what you've been doing, Eddie."

The two shook hands as Callie pulled off the protective glasses and yanked the baseball cap off her hair. The tail, which had been shoved through the back, flopped in the humid breeze. Eddie flashed her an extra grin – he was cute, she had to admit. He was young, newer to the force than her brother, but already he'd been given a lot of responsibility helping the SWAT guys train on this course. The fact that they were on it now spoke to how big a favor Eddie owed her brother.

"What have you been telling Dad?" Ray asked as they left, checking back in their equipment, referring to her earlier remark.

"Self defense training," she said. "Hand to hand, I told him."

"Ah, a half-truth. Always better."

"I don't like lying to Dad but he's already upset enough." Her voice was low, almost bitter, as she said it.

"And what about you?" Ray asked. She could hear the muscles in his jaw tightening.

"Me?" she said with a loud sigh. "I'm sick to death, that's what I am." She quickened her pace, and Ray had to hurry a bit to catch up with her.

"Why did this happen to me!" she shouted as soon as she was in his office, the door shut behind them. "Why did he have to get into my cab?"

Ray watched as Callie nearly exploded. She was trying to hold it in – a blossoming mushroom cloud that didn't want to expand.

"I had a life once. Now I have this!" She shook the empty holster at her waist. "I had my own place and now I'm living at my father's house again! I had a job and I was going to get my degree, and now people have to go beg my professors to accept independently written papers so I can finish my courses! AND I CAN'T EVEN BEGIN TO GET BEHIND THE WHEEL OF A CAR!"

Ray hissed between his teeth. That last outburst had rattled the windows.

She shut her eyes, squeezing back the tears. "I hate him, Ray," she said, her voice cracking. "I hate him so much. I just burn inside with how much I hate him and I can't do anything about it."

He crossed the room to her and put his arms around her. She didn't respond at first, just let her arms hang limply, but she rested her head against his chest. She breathed deep, trying to get the tears under control.

"Is this the first outburst you've had?" Ray asked after a quiet minute.

"Second or third. The first one I had with Dr. Martinez in our third session." She sniffled. Her voice was gravelly.

"So she knows about the anger."

"Shooting the gun helps," Callie replied. "She says to keep doing it. It's good anger therapy."

Ray nodded, his chin against her hair. "It's going to get better, you know," he said in a calm, reassuring voice. "It will."

She sniffed again. She squeezed him, closing her eyes, just quiescent against him for a moment. "And I hate that I'm being such a damn baby about it," she whispered.

Ray almost burst into a laugh, but instead it came out more like a quick bark. "Callie," he said soothingly, "you're not being a—"

"Yes I am." She pulled away, wiping her eyes. "I am. Worse things have happened to people. I mean, look at Annie."

"That isn't your fault."

"I know, but…I was there. I feel responsible." She gritted her teeth. "And here I go whining again."

"Right now, it's fresh. It's raw." Ray was talking like a cop now, being rational. Almost impartial. "You have to give it time, Opie." She gave him a quick grin at the familiar nickname.

"All right, Junior," she replied. "Will you give me a lift over to the hospital?"

Ray nodded. "What are you reading now?"

"_Lord of the Rings_," she said. "Second volume. I think Annie likes Aragon. Her heart-rate goes a touch faster when I read his parts."

"I was always a Gandalf fan myself," Ray said, holding open the door.


	3. Mr Lonely

Disclaimer: Really? We have to go through this every time?

Vincent: Yes. You wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong impression, would you?

Me: The wrong impression? Like, I'm the only girl here to still wants to play? Face it, honey, I do just about own you.

Vincent: No, no, Michael Mann and Tom Cruise own me.

Me: (_snorts_) The only human being Tom Cruise owns is Katie Holmes.

Vincent: Be nice. We share a face, you know.

Me: You don't look anything like Katie Holmes.

Vincent: (_exasperated sigh_) Why do I put up with you?

Me: Because I write damn good fanfic, that's why. And since when is it your scene to tell anyone to be nice? Usually that's what all us fangirls are telling _you._

Vincent: Some fangirls you're all turning out to be. First you all abandon me for that Ripper guy--

Me: Rippner.

Vincent: Whatever. And now he gets a part in my fic? How is that fair?

Me: Get with it man, life's not fair. You'd be the first person to say that. You've mellowed since your movie debut, old man!

Vincent: Getting shot does that to a person.

Me: Well, don't worry, you'll live through this fic. Although you might wish you hadn't.

Vincent: (_droll_) Thanks a lot. Really.

Me: You're welcome. Now the rest of you, get out there, read and review, dammit! I know you're there, I can see you hitting the story on my Stats page! And BTW, there's many part of this next chapter that are flashing back to the first story, because it's been so freaking long I had to use some flashback stuff, and also I stole the first chunk directly from the old "To Live Or To Die" story. Stuff like that is going to happen a lot.

Vincent: Shame on you. That's cheating.

Me: Indeed. (_winks_)

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Chapter Three – Mr. Lonely

He wasn't going.

It was stupid. Why hadn't he killed Callie? He asked himself again and again. It rotated through his mind, a never-ending cycle that was starting to feel like an organ grinder on his skull.

But he wasn't going back. Not to fix his mistake, nor to "rescue" her. That idea was ridiculous. It was over and done, he didn't look back. And if Peter didn't want to send him any more jobs, well, that was his problem. He wasn't much anymore into killing for money anyway. And he had enough money to last himself for the rest of his life, however long that might be.

It didn't matter. He needed a distraction.

It was a stereotype, it was true, but the reason stereotypes existed was the simple fact that certain commonalities existed between persons of similar culture. In this case, flesh in Thailand was cheap.

Sure, they tried to dress it up, call them "escort services," but Vincent didn't bother with the pretty pictures. He made his call. He asked for his regular. She came quickly, and had a nearly eager look on her face.

Vincent began to wonder if this was the best idea. But the tension was getting a bit too unbearable, and a man had needs, after all.

There was a routine to it. Vincent didn't like the cheapness of a woman in a slinky black dress showing up in his room, banging her on the table and then leaving her cash as he discretely checked out. He'd tried it once, it hadn't been to his taste. The nightlife was something to be experienced, and while he usually did it alone, the rare opportunity to share it with Cathy, as he called her, was not unappealing. He rather liked the illusion of being on a date, so dinner always came first, followed by music of some kind.

Cathy was wearing black, as she always did, and her hair was flamed with some kind of bright red dye, something new for that evening. He rather wished she hadn't done it, he preferred her silky, jet-black locks, but as he had his eyes closed half the time he was with her, he didn't feel the point was worth arguing.

She smiled at him, chatted sometimes when there was something for her to talk about. He didn't really give her much room. There was a rather cheap jazz band that played sometimes in this one nightclub that had a tendency to change locations by the month, and Vincent used up most of the conversation either complaining at how bad they were, or complementing them on their occasional good performance. It wasn't their fault, their instruments were not the best quality, yadda yadda yadda, he knew he would carry on at times, but she was paid very well to sit, smile and agree.

On the days when he didn't feel as talkative, she would pick up the slack talking about the movements of the market, who was arrested for what, and faithfully reciting the occasional jazz facts that amused him to teach her.

On this evening, she was unusually quiet. As was he.

Her almond-shaped eyes, a pale golden color that reminded him at times of a cat, watched him, especially when she thought he wasn't looking. Her quiet, contemplative state made him uneasy. She wasn't paid to think, and whatever she was thinking about, he just didn't think it would be good.

The band was particularly bad that night, but Vincent had no heart to start badmouthing them. After all, beggars couldn't be choosers. He considered going to a club where they played prerecorded music, knew that would cost money and possibly make him and Cathy stand out, but might almost be worth it at this rate.

He just wished he could stop thinking.

Finally, she leaned forward, arching her back in a cat-like pose, exposing her chest to him, which was artificially enhanced. His gaze settled on her breasts and he began to think that perhaps the date portion of the evening could come to an early end.

"You remember my friend Tina?" she said in her rich, Thai accent, which had mellowed considerably since he'd first met her.

Vincent gave a half-shrug. Yes, she would also talk about the other girls, either just to trash them or to tell amusing stories about things that had happened to them.

"What about her?" Vincent asked, disinterested.

"She got married." Ah, so that was the cause of that look she'd been wearing all night.

"To who?" Vincent asked.

"A regular."

"Won't her other regulars get upset?"

Cathy let out a coy, coltish laugh. "No, Vincent, she has no others."

He looked at the woman, intensifying his gaze, saw her melt under it, and for a moment, lose track of what she was going to say. He leaned closer to her, to kiss her, and shut his eyes, visualizing another face, another pair of sweet lips—

"Tina planned it. As we all do. Find one who cannot resist you. Eventually, he makes you his wife."

Vincent froze. "That's a big gamble," he said, inches away from her face. "What if the one you pick is already married?"

"There are ways to prevent that," Cathy went on with a sigh, her breath, freshened by her drink, drifting over his cheek. "We are very cunning, you know."

"Oh, I know," Vincent said with a smile. He reached under the table and his hands found her soft, slender leg. Slowly, he made his way up to the edge of her skirt. "But most of the time, men don't like to be pinned down."

Cathy just went on smiling. "You know, I read that in America, women give their favors away for free, and then the man never marries her. Is that true?"

"Yes, it's true," Vincent said, feeling the warm inside of her thigh.

"You see, that is why it works for us," Cathy explained. "Because we are not free. Eventually, every man realizes that it is easier to make a whore his wife than to make his wife a whore."

Vincent cocked an eyebrow. There was a certain truth to that. "So what happens when the man doesn't propose? How long does it take for her to…figure it out?"

Cathy winked at him. "Has never happened yet, Vincent," she purred.

It was almost enough to wreck the mood. But some calls were more urgent than the annoyance of a female mind, intent on ensnaring a mate. Vincent paid the bill and took her back to a hotel room, where he made damn sure she didn't have any false ideas about what he really wanted from her.

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Afterwards, he returned home. Alone. There was a heavy brown envelope on the table in his makeshift dining room. His home was very basic, although everything was very expensive. He had nothing else to spend his money on. Other than jazz.

Vincent picked up the packet, turning it over in his hands. The picture of Callie from before was resting underneath it, and it flickered up at him, catching his eye. It was a black and white, taken from a distance through a zoom lense. It didn't capture her, not the way she was. But he remembered that last moment, standing in the airport. The dead look on her face as he tried to kiss her, and then the spark coming back.

"There you are," he'd said to her. And kissed her again.

It had been a mistake to get into her cab. He had known it from moment one. He remembered telling himself that he should get out, that he should only hang with her to the next stop, but what choice had he had? South Union wasn't exactly an easy place to hail down a cab. L.A. wasn't like Chicago or New York, where the cabs swarmed like bees in September. It was the second stop where things had gone to hell.

He should have killed her when she tried to escape. Left her with the two dead punks. Just left the whole mess behind. Before he got attached.

He seemed to remember telling himself the same thing as he stood in that gas station lot, staring at the pictures that reminded him of downtown Gary. Something had been wrong with him that night. It was still wrong – he couldn't place it, but it had somehow acquired her face.

Her face, which stared at him from new pictures, more recent ones. The same face he left behind. The same pale, shrunken face of someone defeated. He could see it in her eyes. She was still walking around with him in her head. He was still with her.

The thought made him smile.

Force had always been his means to every end. Violence was just a way of life, a way to control things, a way to keep outside things from controlling you. He did not hesitate to use it, he did not feel one way or the other about it. He had been charming with her, he told himself, during that first ride. Even the second one. But when those punks had tried to mug her, well…plan B. No problem.

He had initially pegged her as a spoiled girl who really had no idea how the world actually worked. It wasn't common to see too many pretty college girls driving cabs, and her novelty struck him. She seemed to have a cool, almost tough veneer, but once he got her talking he knew she was just like everyone else in the world, playing it safe.

And then she had tried to get away from him. The pure brass balls of that move had impressed him. Impressed him so much, that he hadn't killed her.

Like he should have.

Sure, he reprimanded her. Just because he liked spunk didn't mean he could tolerate it. And it seemed that made it better, made it more fun. Breaking her spirit, taming the beast, just made it that much more interesting.

Because the job had not been interesting. Not for a long time had it been interesting. That was why he was off that night, he told himself. He was bored. He was limited. He was asking himself if this was all he was, just a hired, if very expensive, gun. Just a machine that took lives. Wasn't there anything else of meaning?

And why hadn't he ever cared before?

So he worked on her. As if she was the personification of that thing inside of him, curling and squirming and trying to get out. The more she fought, the more he enjoyed it. The harder he had to press, the more attractive she became.

She was still fighting.

These pictures had been taken at a shooting range. She was with a man he thought he recognized as her brother, and another one, also looked like a cop, blond haired and skinny. She was turning around, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, with a gun holstered at her hip, a pair of safety goggles over her eyes and a pair of ear mufflers strapped over her baseball cap.

Vincent smiled. She was trying to shake him off. Still trying to fight him after he was long gone. He felt flattered. More than that, he felt intrigued.

Maybe he'd made his previous decision too hastily. The prospect of this…it was like life was starting to gain back a bit of its taste again.

Underneath the pictures was a fat package of papers that had been faxed through. There was a typed note on the front, no salutation or closing, just simple words.

"_Jackson sent me these not fourteen hours ago. They came from the office of Dr. Laurence Gregg, whom she's been working with. I thought they would be of interest to you_."

Vincent flipped the note back. Fax paper was so thin, slick against his fingers. But the first words, the first lines of what was written there, made him forget everything else.

"_That's the _why_. There is no _reason_. There's no good reason, no bad reason to live or to die." Such were the words spoken to me by the man I only knew as Vincent as he rode around in the back of my cab, using me as his personal driver to take out the hits he had been paid to make that night_.

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"I'll get the trash," Callie said, coming up behind her father as he finished washing the last dish. She grabbed up the bag where it was tied and sitting beside the back door, and flashed him a smile.

"You almost done?" he asked her as she unlocked the deadbolt and let in the cool evening air.

"Almost," she said. "I'm going to stop tonight and finish tomorrow. I should have it into him by late tomorrow afternoon." She pushed open the screen door and gave him a classic, "whoopee," look, the one to show him what she really thought of what she was doing. Somehow, the thrill of getting her degree just didn't seem to exist anymore. But she had set her mind to a purpose, and Callie did not quit.

She dragged the bag behind her as she lumbered down to the dumpster her father shared with a handful of neighbors. A long time ago about five of them had gotten together and rented it, splitting the cost between them. It was locked, and she had just remembered to grab up the key before taking out the bag.

The dumpster was down the driveway and far off to the left, but she made it without incident. They lived in one of the older neighborhoods of L.A., where it was still relatively nice and everybody knew each other.

"_Ten million people in L.A. and nobody knows each other_."

She was coming back up the walk when his voice went through her head. She stopped, and realized she was at the exact point in the driveway where they had stood that night. Her car, an old Delta 88 Oldsmobile, occupied the spot where the taxi had sat. Vincent had stopped her, rested his backside against the trunk and started to ask her personal questions. He'd asked her personal questions before, but that had been before he'd shot and killed two street thugs in front of her, and murdered a jazz musician he claimed to have liked while she was in the bathroom. It was also before he pushed her up against a wall and kissed her.

He'd kissed her again, sitting here. The memory was suddenly striking, fresh and clear as if it were happing right now, and she was watching it, a spectator in her own flashback.

_He reached out with the other hand and firmly drew her to him, so that she stood between his legs, which were parted slightly to get her closer. Their faces were inches apart. "You know, I'd almost hoped you'd be an unappreciative brat," he murmured. "Complain about your parents even though they're saints. But you don't. I'll bet every night when you pray, you pray to your mother to watch over your father. I'll bet you're keenly aware of how much he misses her, and yet love him all the more for staying with you."_

"_You talk about me like I'm special," she said. "I'm just someone who's mature enough to appreciate her parents."_

"_Which makes you probably the most well-adjusted person I've ever known," Vincent said. And then, after a beat, he kissed her. Again._

_The motion of Vincent's lips on hers was so quick that it took her by surprise for a moment. It wasn't really a full kiss, she realized, when she pushed him away. His mouth had been open, and had gently rested on the corner of hers, fully expecting her to kiss him back. The surprise and – was it? – hurt on his face threw her, and she wasn't quite sure what to do for another second. _

_Surely he couldn't be serious._

Vincent put down the manuscript – that was what it was, a manuscript. A first person account, her account, of that night. The things he had done, through her eyes. It was stark and sharp and painfully accurate.

Even the kissing.

He didn't let himself think too much about kissing her, but it was as if he were suddenly doing it again. As if she were here, in his arms, and sense memory could feel and taste her.

_Full on scarlet stained her cheeks now. Her eyes had gone hazy, distant, a desperate attempt to escape the stress of the situation. Using the opportunity, he lifted one hand to the snaps on her jacket. His knuckles pressed ever so gently against her breast through the leather. _

"_You were attracted to me?" he whispered, ruffling the thin hairs around her ear. She shivered as one snap came undone. _

"_Never trust your first impression," she muttered. Humor was the last defense. He slipped two fingers into her jacket as he undid the next snap. She wasn't pulling away._

"_Oh, always trust your first impression," Vincent smiled. "Maybe I thought the same thing."_

_Confusion fluttered all across her face. He had her on the ropes and he just kept yanking her around. In a few more minutes she was going to be helpless. He made himself stay focused and slow as he undid the snaps, one by one, and watched as she struggled to think. When his hands finally slipped inside, caressing her curves, reaching up and finding her breasts, her eyes shut and she was almost scowling with the effort that took. He shifted his weight, his fingers enjoying the softness of her body and the slinky sensation of the shirt, as he pulled her farther and farther into his grip. Soon, her face was resting against his, the bridge of his nose pressed against her forehead, so he had a front row view to her face and how she was fighting back against her attraction._

Callie shut her eyes, sucking in a hard breath. It wasn't fair. It wasn't normal. Why had she been chosen to carry such a burden?

Laurie had told her that it was natural for her to feel this way. Vincent had manipulated her, relentlessly, throughout the night. It was only normal for there to be scars. She just had to work through them. Deep breaths, push the memories back. It was past, all in the past.

_Vincent paused, thoughtful. "What if it was true?" he said._

"_What if what was true?"_

"_That we were dating, and that you brought me home tonight to meet your father. Did he like me? Would he think I was suitable?" At the look she gave him, he amended, "I mean, taking out the…obvious."_

_Swallowing, knowing this was impossible, she carefully picked her answer. "He seemed to like you well enough, Vincent. You were very polite."_

"_Yeah, but would we get along?" Vincent pressed. "Like family?"_

Vincent shoved the manuscript away. He didn't want to think about it. All his life he'd lived with the fact that his father blamed him for the death of his mother. He'd been completely rejected. That pain never went away, but he told himself it didn't matter anymore. He was a man, he had his own life.

He looked around. _This_ was his life.

He sucked in another breath. _Callie_…always her face. Always the memory of her. Nothing had been right since that night. He couldn't understand one bit of it.

And even less could he bear the thought of the world without her in it.

Peter…Peter understood. Vincent did not know how, because he did not understand it himself. But Peter had come to him and given him clear choices, and his blessing for whatever he decided.

Vincent decided. He was going back to L.A.

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Callie came back into the house. She was shivering.

"Is it getting cold out there?" her dad asked as he wiped his hands on a dishtowel.

"No," she said, hearing the tremor in her voice. "Just a breeze."

Her father studied her carefully. "Bad memories?" he asked softly.

She looked at him, stricken. He thought he could see her trauma…she would die of shame if he even had a clue. She needed to talk to Laurie. First thing in the morning, she was going to call him.

"I'm going to go to bed," she said, keeping her tone soft. "You going to lock up?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it," he said. "Get some rest, finish your paper. Before you know it, sweetie, your future will be here."

_That's what I'm afraid of_, she thought.

So I've had a few people wondering how the titles are connected to the chapters, and it's just the song I feel is the most appropriate to the content of the chapter. So here is this chapter's song:

**Mr. Lonely--Akon**

Lonely, I'm Mr. Lonely  
I have nobody  
For my own, I'm so lonely  
I'm Mr. Lonely  
I have nobody  
For my own, I'm so lonely

Yo, this one here goes out to all my playas out there man, ya know? That got that one good girl dog, that's always been there man, like... And then one day she can't take it no more and decides to leave.

I woke up in the middle of the night  
Wondering why she had to go and take that flight  
Could have sworn I was dreamin  
For her I was feenin  
So I had to take a little ride

Backtracking on these few years  
Tyring to figure out what I did to make it go bad  
Cause ever since my girl left me  
My whole life came crashing and I'm so...

Lonely (So lonely)  
I'm Mr. Lonely (Mr. Lonely)  
I have nobody (I have nobody)  
For my own (Body, to call my own girl)  
I'm so lonely (So lonely)  
I'm Mr. Lonely (Mr. Lonely)  
I have nobody (I have nobody)  
For my own (Body, to call my own girl)

Can't believe I had a girl like you,  
And I just let you walk right out of my life.  
After all I put you through,  
You still stuck around and stayed by my side.  
What really hurt me was I broke your heart,  
Baby you're a good girl and I had no right.  
I really wanna make things right,  
Cause without you in my life girl I'm so...

Lonely (So lonely)  
I'm Mr. Lonely (Mr. Lonely)  
I have nobody (I have nobody)  
For my own (Body, to call my own girl)  
I'm so lonely (So lonely)  
I'm Mr. Lonely (Mr. Lonely)  
I have nobody (I have nobody)  
For my own (Body, to call my own girl)

Been all over the world and I ain't never met a girl that could take the things that you've been through  
Never thought the day would come when you would get up and run and I would be out chasing you  
Cause there ain't no where on the globe I'd rather be  
Ain't no one on the globe I'd rather see  
Than the girl of my dreams that made me be  
So happy but now so loenly

Lonely (So lonely)  
I'm Mr. Lonely (Mr. Lonely)  
I have nobody (I have nobody)  
For my own (Body, to call my own girl)  
Lonely (So lonely)  
I'm Mr. Lonely (Mr. Lonely)  
I have nobody (I have nobody)  
For my own (Body, to call my own girl)

Never thought that I'd be alone  
I didn't think you'd be gone this long  
I just want you to call my phone  
Stop playing girl and come on home  
Baby gil I didn't mean to shout  
I want me and you to work it out  
I never wished to hurt my baby  
And it's driving me crazy cause I'm so...

Lonely (So lonely)  
I'm Mr. Lonely (Mr. Lonely)  
I have nobody (I have nobody)  
For my own (Body, to call my own girl)  
Lonely (So lonely)  
I'm Mr. Lonely (Mr. Lonely)  
I have nobody (I have nobody)  
For my own (Body, to call my own girl)


	4. This Ain't A Scene

This week's chapter title comes from the song "This Ain't A Scene, It's An Arm's Race," by Fall-Out Boy.

Chapter Four – This Ain't A Scene

The lunch crowd at the Barney's on Orange was intense. Rarely was it ever like this, but it was close to graduation, and everyone was rushing around, trying to get everything done. Located only a few blocks off her end of campus – or what used to be her end, anyway – Callie found it a very easy stop to grab a good, cheap sandwich.

"You're going to have to share a table," the waitress, Tammy, told her as she seated her at a newly-cleared row. A booth on one side and about six chairs across on the other, it was just waiting to be filled.

Callie hardly paid attention as she sat down and flipped open the menu. The waitress was seating two others, and they were spaced apart, but she knew that wouldn't last long, as another group came in through the door. As she had gotten the coveted corner, the other two – both of them men – had to scoot down, so that she was effectively surrounded, so that the other three could stay together.

"Oh, wait," said the man sitting beside her, suddenly patting down his bag, "dammit, I forgot my wallet. Could you excuse me?"

Callie hauled herself out of the seat and let the guy go. When she sat back down, the man across from her was grinning.

"Worst nightmare, personally," he said. "Losing my wallet, I mean. I couldn't image going anywhere without it."

"Me neither," Callie said, smiling and chuckling politely. Then she went back to the menu.

"You know, I'm embarrassed to admit, I haven't been in here before, but it seems like a crazy popular place," the man went on, apparently oblivious to the fact that she wanted to be left alone. She looked up at him again, and was struck by the brightness and the roundness of his eyes. Glacier-blue. Brilliant. He had the appearance of someone who had just come in from the cold, with his high cheeks a soft pink, and his mouth a full coral-rose pout. He was attractive, she had to admit. "So what is it that makes everyone want to come in here?"

"Usually the sandwiches," she said. It was difficult, playing nice. The last time she had talked to an attractive guy, he'd put a gun to her head. But he didn't look anything like Vincent. He was young, with longish brown hair and a wide smile. She tried to let down her guard.

"Uh huh…" He picked up the menu. "Which one do you come in for?"

"The club, usually," she said, "but today it feels like a meatloaf sandwich day."

"Ah." He looked at that item, pressed his lips together and raised his eyebrows, a facial expression to show keen interest. "My mother used to make those for me for lunch, always on Tuesdays. Monday night meatloaf." He grinned at her, charming.

She nodded back. "My father usually does spaghetti," she said. "You know what it's like to get cold spaghetti in your lunch box?"

He chortled. "I couldn't imagine. But cold pizza works, and so does pasta salad, so I guess it can't be that different, can it?"

"Oh, it can," she laughed. The waitress came over, anxious to serve the customers and get them out the door. Callie ordered a meatloaf sandwich and a rootbeer, and her new lunch companion did the same.

"I'm sorry," the man said, leaning a bit closer to her, "I didn't even get your name."

"Calliope," she said. "It's Greek, from my grandmother. You?"

"Jackson," he said. "Nothing special about it, really. Although I think my parents were having a bit of fun at my expense, because my last name is Rippner."

Her eyebrows shot up. "That wasn't very nice of your parents," she said with a shocked smile.

"Nope," he said. "But you…Calliope. That was a Greek muse, wasn't it? Of poetry or something?"

"Heroic poetry," she confirmed. She considered it for a moment. "When I was little my father called me his kaleidoscope. Come to think of it, I think that was my high school nick-name, too."

"Yeah, I learned a long time ago to stay away from nicknames," Jackson agreed. "So are you a student?"

"I'm finishing," she said. "Graduating this month."

He frowned at her. "Huh. You know, it's the strangest thing," he said, looking at her closely. "But all of a sudden you seem really familiar."

"I do?" Something prickled in the back of her head. _This is a nice guy_, she told herself. _This is not Vincent_. "Are you a student as well?"

"No, not a student. I work as a manager. But you…did you ever…did you ever drive a cab?"

The shock vibrated into her spine. Then she let out a gasping laugh. "Um…up until about two weeks ago, yeah." She narrowed her gaze, studying him. "You know me from that?"

His mouth split into a very wide grin. "I think so! Yeah, I must have ridden in your cab at some point. Not too many pretty female cab drivers around here, to be honest."

"No, not really," she agreed. "Well, I must have made an impression. Usually all anybody sees of a cab driver is the back of his head."

"_Her_ head, in your case," Jackson corrected her playfully. "So why did you quit?"

"Oh, I was just doing it to make some money through college," she said, suddenly feeling a jolt in her stomach. She hadn't said she quit, but Jackson must have been assuming. He was just lucky, guessing correctly, she told herself. "And it just didn't hold the same thrill for me anymore."

"Yeah," Jackson said, rubbing his lips with two fingers. "Yeah, I guess getting dragged around all night by a hit man would do that to you."

The world slowed. Callie felt everything around her grind down, like a movie where the projector was running out of steam. Her ears were humming and all other sound was blocked out by the sound of her own heartbeat. Finally, she licked her lips, swallowed, and said in a scratchy voice, "What did you just say?"

"You heard me." His voice had gone quiet, but she could hear it perfectly. Her mind was somehow aware of the noise around her, but she didn't hear it. There was just him. He tossed his head, casually. "It's perfectly understandable, Calliope. That kind of experience would be highly traumatic. In fact, I'm sure that possibly nobody else alive has the kind of story that you do. But that's why you're writing it, aren't you?"

She pressed her lips together and swallowed hard. Her throat felt like it had grown cactus thorns. "What do you know about what I'm writing?"

"I've read it," he said, glancing around, making sure nobody was eavesdropping on their conversation. "Not too bad, really. Kind of hastily written, but the first half looks like the edits are going pretty well. Not the kind of thing you could publish raw, but—"

She slapped the table. Her fork did a neat little flip and landed half-way between them. The water glass rattled, and a shadow fell over them. They both looked up and saw the waitress staring down at them, eyebrow rising quizzically, holding their soft drinks.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

Callie looked back at Jackson, who met her eyes without blinking. Then he turned back to the waitress and flashed her a winning smile. "My friend just gets a bit too enthusiastic about proving her point," he said apologetically. He turned back to Callie. "Calm down, sweetie, you don't want to embarrass us both."

The waitress looked from one to the other, put down the root beers and went about her business as usual. Callie leaned forward on her hand, her eyes boring holes into Jackson's face. She had lived through Vincent – if this punk thought he could play her--

"What the hell do you want?" she hissed at him.

"Easy, gunpowder," he said, his voice still low, casual. "I was actually complementing you. I understand where it's all coming from, you know. I mean, something like that, happening to a young woman seeking to enter the field of criminal psychology, could be a career builder for you. It's already gotten the attention of the head of Crazy Ant's. I hear he's already reserving a position for you."

She just glared at him, eyes sizzling. She wanted to smash this rodent under her heel. She was going to die alone; there simply weren't any trustworthy men in this world anymore.

"And that's wonderful. No reason why it can't all happen. Except for publishing this particular book. There really isn't any need of that."

"Who do you work for?" she asked in an undertone.

"Doesn't matter," he answered, "except for the fact that they are extremely well funded, and are happy to offer you enough money to keep you very comfortable for the rest of your life, in exchange for you burying this book. Burying it deep."

"You work for Felix Reyes-Torrena?"

Jackson shook his head. "He's a small fish. But small fish are important, to protect the big fish. And really, Callie, if I may call you Callie…that's what everyone calls you now, correct?"

Her eyes were going to smolder in her sockets.

The waitress came back with two plates of food. Jackson looked up at her, flashing her another charming grin. "Could I get that to go, please? I'm sorry, but it turns out I'm going to be leaving sooner than I thought."

The waitress left Callie's place and rolled her eyes, holding Jackson's in her hand. Jackson pulled a ten dollar bill from his pocket, reached up and slipped it into her apron, and she winked at him, getting the message.

"And really, Callie, what good would this really do you, anyway? I mean, if you publish this story, it's going to attract all kinds of attention, and I'm sure not all of it will be favorable. I mean, you really think Vincent will like it if he sees his name in print?"

She flinched. "You know him?" she asked. "You know Vincent?"

He pressed his lips together and stared at her. "I can't guarantee your safety if you decide to continue on your current course," he said, matter-of-factly. "But when you come to your senses, I'll be in touch."

"How?" she asked, as the waitress returned with a brown paper bag. Jackson took it, handing her a fifty.

"I have my ways," he said, and to the waitress he added, "This should cover both tabs, shouldn't it?"

The waitress gave him the brightest smile they'd seen from her all day. Jackson winked at Callie, put the bag under his arm and headed out the door.

Callie looked down at her pre-paid lunch. She wasn't hungry anymore.

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Somewhere in a nondiscriminate apartment in L.A., a telephone rang. A man with a receding hairline, a handsome face and a Southern Welsh accent answered.

"Cash."

"Trent. It's V."

"Yeah, they told me you were coming."

"Airport? My flight arrives at eight o'clock Sunday night."

"Same time man. Not normal to see you again so soon."

"I've got some unfinished business."

"Yeah, your pack is light. Anything else you need?"

"Nope. Thanks." The line went dead.

Trent Cash nervously toed the twin bags that sat underneath the table. He was making the exactly same drop, only tonight and at a train station. Same intel, same everything. But he wasn't paid to ask questions or to give heads-up. Whatever was going on, it wasn't his business. He was just an extremely well-paid bag boy.

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"Well, in a way, I'm almost glad," Laurie said. "Means I don't have to waste time speculating anymore."

"So he called you too?" Callie asked again, still incredulous. "I just don't believe it. I mean, what is the big deal? It's not like the Justice department can even make solid connections – you know if they could I'd be in witness protection like that." She snapped her fingers. It echoed strangely in the late afternoon sunlight of Laurie's office. "I'm not even allowed to use Felix's name."

"It's not about Felix, I don't think," Laurie said carefully. "I think this has more to do with Vincent."

Callie looked away. The color had long since left her cheeks, before she'd come in here to talk. Now she was turning slight yellow in pallor.

"I know it's upsetting, but we've already discussed the strangeness of him leaving you alive."

"I know," she snapped, harsher than she intended. It had been a rough day. Still, Laurie didn't deserve it. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I'm just sick of it."

Laurie shrugged. "I'm sick of walking with a cane. Doesn't mean I can change it." He watched her carefully, as she dragged her eyes back to him. "You may have to face the possibility that this isn't over."

"I don't think I could take it if I had to see Vincent again."

"It's not Vincent directly that I'm concerned about. But maybe the people who paid Vincent are annoyed that you're alive and with a story to tell. Your dad and I were talking, and I've been making some arrangements. I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you."

Callie straightened a bit in her seat. "Tell me what?"

"Well, I'm working on fixing it so that you can come and stay here at the institute for a bit. Maybe a few weeks, maybe a month – I'm already going to give you an internship, based on the work we've been doing together, it's not that far-fetched. We could just say that it's starting early."

"But why _here?_"

"Because it's a prison," Laurie pointed out logically. "Because the resident doctors' quarters are very well guarded to keep any unfortunately accidents from happening. And it's a very unlikely place for anyone to come looking for you. Who doesn't want to land in a bunch of trouble, at any rate."

She grumbled. "Just stick me in the Fed Penn in Terre Haute, why don't you."

"Well, I think you'll like our meal plan better." He kept his face straight. "And the clean sheets."

"So you've just arranged for this on your own?" she asked. "Without even talking to me first?"

"It was your father's idea," Laurie admitted. "I didn't make him any promises. I figured I should tell you before I go back to him."

"You figured right." She bit her lip. "I'll have to talk to my brother, see what he thinks."

"Well, your brother thinks you should have a concealed weapons permit and carry a .22 millimeter," Laurie quipped. "It's not hard to figure out where he'll land on this one."

"Don't be so sure. Ray might think he's capable of protecting me on his own, with some friends. He feels responsible for a lot of it…for not getting me away from Vincent when he had a chance." She grew silent and thoughtful for a moment. "Maybe that's the best reason to come here, though. I don't want Ray taking any more responsibility for me than he already has."

Laurie nodded. "There's something else we need to talk about."

She raised her eyebrows at him. The "now what" expression was a classic. But they were only a week and a half into the work, so it was expected that there was much, much more to do. "Vincent again?" she asked wearily, reading his mind.

He said, "I think we should take it from a different angle." He pulled out his recorder, set it on the desk, and pressed the red recording button. "We've been talking about you and your experiences, but we have to go the other way now. We have to look at things from Vincent's point of view." Laurie scooted closer to his desk, templing his fingers together as he usually did when he was about to be profound. "It's vital that, as doctors, we can show empathy, even for the worst kind of people. Especially you must, Callie, because Vincent himself is totally without empathy. He's incapable of it."

"Then how can we know what he's feeling?" she asked, struggling through the dark haze to follow his path, trying to be reasonable, logical, and think like a doctor.

"He's without empathy, not without his own emotions. He can't relate to people. Now, a lot of this is speculation, because we can't actually talk to the subject, but we can analyze him from his behaviors. For instance –" Laurie ruffled the papers on his desk, her manuscript. And then he paused.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It just…bugs me to think that Rippner was in my office. That he got a hold of a copy of this."

She barked a laugh, but swallowed it quickly. "It bugs _you_," she snorted.

"Eh. Okay, back to the subject. I was going for this example…" Laurie flipped the pages.

"Wait a minute," Callie said, leaning forward. "Who else has seen that manuscript, other than you or me?"

"Nobody else I know of, except for Rippner, if it's like he claimed."

"Well, what if we dusted it for prints?" she suggested. "I mean, maybe we can find Rippner's prints on it, and maybe that might lead us somewhere?"

"Where?" Laurie asked.

Callie shrugged. "I don't know…fingerprints always lead somewhere on Law and Order!"

Laurie chuckled. "You watch too much television. First of all, you know how hard it is to match up fingerprints? Only if they're already fingerprinted as known criminals is it even possible – or if they're State employees. And that even depends on the state. Even if we got this Rippner guy's fingerprints, what good does it to us? The worst we have on him is breaking and entering."

"But still, Laurie—"

"And do you know how long it takes for things like that to come back? How many search engines you have to use, how many different resources you have to contact? It would take a minimum of two weeks to even get a hit—"

Suddenly, Callie's cellular phone went off. Scowling, she reached into her pocket, and would have let it go to voicemail, except that it was her brother's number. Something told her to take it.

"Hello?"

"Callie, it's Ray. I've gone some incredible news for you. We got a match on Vincent's fingerprints."

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Disclaimer: I forgot the disclaimer. I don't own anything. And right now, Vincent is pretty pissed.

Vincent: (_glowering silently in the corner_)

Me: He's mad because of Jack—

Vincent: DON'T say his name.

Me: That the _other guy_ from that _other movie_ was in this chapter more than him.

Vincent: Whose fing fanfic is this, anyway?

Me: (_sighs_) Yours, of course, dear. Anyway, back to my disclaimer. I don't own Vincent and I don't own Ja—

Vincent: I said--!

Me: Geeze, you are just a big whiny baby! I don't own the other guy, either. I also don't own Ray—

Vincent: Who'd want him?

Me: Don't be such a shit. You're on a plane right now, there's not a lot I can do with you. You know how long a flight from Thailand to the U.S. takes? I mean, it's not pretty. Anyway, you'll be in the next chapter. Lots and lots.

Vincent: Liar. You're a liar. You're trying to build up all this tension, all this…this… build up between me and Callie, and how long it's been since we've seen each other, yadda yadda. So when we do see each other again it'll explode.

Me: Okay, you got me. What's wrong with that, anyway? But you will be in the next chapter, I promise!

Vincent: Yeah, I'd like to see you explain that whole fingerprint thing. Most everybody knows one of the first things professional assassins do is acid wash their fingerprints.

Me: Tom Cruise would never use acid wash on his hands. So you're a glowing exception, sweetheart.

Vincent: Now you're just making me look stupid.

Me: Hey, suspend the disbelief for me, here! I gotta move this story along somehow! Anyway, the rest of you guys need to go and review. Go on now! I know you're out there, I can see you on my Stats page!


	5. Sharp Dressed Man

Chapter 5 – Sharp Dressed Man (From the ZZ Top song)

"I had a team on the MTA car," Ray explained to them as he came into his office. She sat at his desk, Laurie beside her, leaning on his cane because he insisted that Callie take the only extra chair. "There weren't any leads there – too many people come and go on public transportation. Your cab wasn't much good either, although I'm sure his prints were all over the back seat. It was the bag that he dumped – got rid of it when you took him to the airport. I finally got a hold of it, and after we screened out all the employee prints, we had two that we couldn't match. So we started making the rounds. Its tedious work, but it pays off sometimes."

Callie shot Laurie a look. He just looked innocent.

"We got a hit on one of the fingerprints in Indiana – Gary, Indiana, to be specific. With a juvenile detention center. He has a record." He handed Callie the packet, as if it were some sacred thing. "I think you should have a look."

Callie took it with trembling hands. Her eyes flickered over the names – she didn't care what Vincent's last name was. She never had. It wouldn't make him any smaller, wouldn't make him any less terrifying. The names of his parents mattered little, as well…although the fact that his mother, Veronica, died in childbirth got her attention.

"According to the files," Ray was saying to Laurie, "he killed his father when he was twelve. Took a handgun that his dad kept in the house and shot him right in the head. He'd been in and out of foster homes – his father beat him up regularly."

Callie looked up at Ray. Her face was twisted. She didn't want to feel sorry for Vincent, didn't want to empathize or even sympathize with him at all.

"A history of alcohol abuse with the dad…and combined with the death of the mother. This guy had a miserable childhood. When we went into juvie after murdering his father, he was treated like he was going to end up institutionalized. He lived there until he was emancipated on his eighteenth birthday."

"Only one place for a guy like that," Laurie said softly. "Back to prison."

"That's what I thought too," Ray said, sitting down at the head of his desk. "But he didn't, surprisingly enough. This guy didn't do any time at all after juvie. He joined the military, and from there his record was sealed. Only thing I could get was that he was honorably discharged about seven years ago. Then he vanishes."

"Someone like that," Laurie said, going with his earlier thoughts from before, "would have been idea for the military to program. He would have been perfect for black ops operations, the kind of stuff you only read about in spy novels. God knows what kind of missions he was on." He was looking at the file over Callie's shoulder. "From the look of these dates, he would have been going in during the middle of the Cold War. Looks like he was discharged soon after it ended. They didn't need him anymore."

"And someone with those kind of skills would be perfect to go into the assassination business," Ray quipped. "I was talking to our Fed contacts – they were full of stories. Apparently guys like Vincent are a dime a dozen."

Callie met her brother's eyes. "So what does this mean now?" she asked in a very quiet voice. "I mean, what do we do with this?"

"Well, it means that now the Feds are going to do everything they can to connect Vincent to Felix Reyes-Torrena. And if they get lucky…well, that means that you're going to be called on to testify to what you saw that night."

"Wonderful," Callie moaned, closing the folder and setting it on Ray's desk.

"This is as good a time as any to tell you," Laurie said to Ray, coming around to stand in front of the desk. "Callie is going to come stay at the institute."

"As a guest or a resident?" Ray asked with an arched eyebrow.

"As a guest," Laurie replied dryly. "The place is secure – she'll stay in the resident doctors' wing, and I'll even give her an orderly for her very own. Won't that be fun?" He tossed Callie a look.

"Does Dad know about this?" Ray asked her.

"It was his idea," Callie replied.

Ray was thoughtful for a long, quiet minute. Then he said, "I think…I think you should pack your stuff, Callie. I think if it's possible you should stay there tonight."

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It was an incredibly long trip, with two stops along the way. One of them, he didn't have to get off, but the other he had to switch planes to a commercial jet.

Normally, he didn't care much. He had his I-pod and his jazz, he had a good book to flip through when he got bored – he hated spy novels, it was either too close to work or it was so ridiculously off that he was insulted. He grabbed either romance novels, simply because he found them incredibly amusing, or he picked up some science fiction, because it was so far removed from the world he knew. Sometimes he went for the classics, and it so happened that he had grabbed a copy of "Crime and Punishment" off the discount rack because he was in a hurry. He was in a sentimental mood.

Problem was, if you weren't reading, watching the movie or listening to music, all there was else to do was think. And he'd been doing too much thinking as it was.

It was the first time in a long time that he was going in without a set plan. Usually, his jobs were laid out for him. He was the third act in a play that had already been going on for two acts before him. He was the last minute, shadowy figure that stepped in from the wings and wiped everyone else out. But now, he didn't know his environment, he didn't know his entrances and exits, he was lucky he was going to get a weapon, but he had little else.

His thoughts turned to Rochester. He'd met him, once or twice, in passing. A long time ago, Rochester had worked for the competition, until Peter had decided to take him under his umbrella. But Rochester had…ticks. Ticks were dangerous for men like them. Vincent killed because he was skilled at it; he could do it, quick, clean, neat, and no fuss. He took no pleasure in it, but he took no pain as well.

Rochester, however. He was like the big bad wolf. He liked to play with his food. He liked to shit where he ate. He was a particularly nasty piece of work, and the thought of him getting his hands on Callie made Vincent squirm.

Vincent didn't squirm.

On the outside, Rochester looked like him – good suit, elegant manners, although he wasn't prematurely gray like Vincent. Although Vincent suspected Rochester dyed his hair. Rochester struck him as the vain sort, the kind obsessed with his own good looks. Vincent knew he was attractive, but he didn't care much about it. Rochester preened himself, like an arrogant peacock.

Vincent had never much liked him anyway.

From his accent, Vincent suspected that Rochester was originally from New Zealand. A Kiwi, as they were called. He wasn't sure if he lived there now. Rochester would have the balls to live somewhere heavily populated, somewhere where he could blend in and still stand out. Or maybe he moved around a lot, simply for the variety of life.

Which meant that he might try to get Callie's attention. Try to charm her somehow – make it a meet-cute situation, catch her in a café and start talking to her. Somehow lure her back to his hotel room.

It wouldn't work, Vincent thought with a malicious smile. First of all, Callie wasn't stupid or slutty enough to fall for it. And second, well, Vincent was quite sure, from what he read in her manuscript, that he had pretty much scared her away from sharp dressed men for a while.

So, once Rochester figured that out – and it might take him a bit of time do to it – he would go for the more direct approach. Which put them on more equal turf. Vincent remembered well the house in the hills of L.A. where Callie's father lived; she might be staying there, especially after the apparent trauma her experience with him had caused her. If not, then she had told him that she lived in student housing on the campus. It wouldn't take long to track her down either way.

Question was…did Rochester know this?

Peter had told him that he was going to give Rochester the job, which meant Rochester got all of the intel. If Rippner was in charge of that, Vincent had to admit, it would be pretty thorough. If it was Felix's people, then it was questionable. And he wouldn't know until he got his own intel through Cash at his bag drop point.

He just couldn't wait that long. But did he have a choice? He could contact Peter through a satellite phone on the plane, but how secure would it be? Satellites projected information. Even if he somehow got a hold of a cellular phone at his layover, there was still the possibility of things being picked up by a scanner.

There was no help for it. He had to wait, and use a land line.

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"It's not so bad, really," Laurie was telling her as they walked the late afternoon corridors. The sun cast long, dust-filled beams through the windows, giving the place a feeling somewhere between creepy and angelic. "I'll stay here, too, if you want."

"No, I don't want to inconvenience anybody," Callie said as they paused at her dormitory. "And your security system going in looked pretty good."

"Yes, and Bill should be here any minute now. You'll like him, he's alternate easy going and full-on intense. Takes his job very seriously but doesn't hesitate to laugh, either."

She gave him a look. "I would have thought you'd prefer straight-laced orderlies, like soldiers, existing only to kick ass and take names."

"Hey, just because these people are criminals doesn't mean that they're not human beings."

"Which, considering your view of human beings, still doesn't speak much for your opinion of them."

"Hush, you. Now this is your room." He turned on the lights. It was a two-person room, like a college dormitory, two twin beds, two desks, and two closets. Simple, done in shades of beige, with simple plain blue comforters and white sheets. One of the beds was already taken, as was evidenced by the stuffed animal by the pillow and the various personal items on the adjoining desk. Callie walked over to the other and put down her bag. "You're sharing with an intern, her name is Lucy. You probably won't see her much, she pretty much lives in the psych ward."

Callie raised an amused eyebrow.

"I didn't mean that how it sounded," Laurie amended. "She's actually the perky type. You'll probably hate her."

Callie grunted, pulled open her bag and started to unload her clothes into the drawers and hang them up in the closet. There was a light knock on the door and both she and Laurie turned around to see a young man standing in the doorway.

"Dr. Gregg?" he said, looking at Laurie.

"Yes, Bill," Laurie said, then turned to Callie. "This is her. Calliope Fanning. Callie, this is Bill, your shadow."

Callie extended her hand for Bill to shake it. He was a large man – six feet at least, not quite stocky, but definitely wide shouldered and build compactly. He had feathery brown hair, deep blue eyes, and a pleasant expression. She'd met her share of orderlies and had found a good portion of them to be bully-like. Bill struck her as a notable exception.

"Good to meet you," Callie said.

"I'll try not to be too underfoot," Bill said, tilting his head to her. "But Dr. Gregg was pretty specific that you weren't to be left alone when you leave your dormitory."

Callie turned her eyes to Laurie. "You were?" she asked.

"Come on, this isn't a big shocker to you," Laurie replied dryly. "Before Bill was an orderly he was a bodyguard. Took on a few celebrities, but figured out he was wasting his life and making too much money in the process. Somehow he figured out that he wanted to make less money and do more worthy work. Sometimes I think he should be checked in as a patient, but nobody listens to me."

Bill chuckled. His smile lit up his face, made him handsome. "Dr. Gregg gives me too much credit. I _was_ a patient here, but they made me an orderly because all the other patients listened to me. Figured they'd put me to good use."

Callie blinked, and then laughed. "Well, that's reassuring," she said. "So, what, you going to stand guard outside my door?"

"We do a walkie talkie system here," Laurie said. "I'll get yours for you tomorrow, the batteries are charging right now."

"Great," Callie said. She plopped down on her bed and stared out the window – which had bars across it. "When is this mess going to be over?"

"Maybe a week," Laurie suggested hopefully – although for Laurie, it came out more sarcastic than anything. "Maybe a little more. You know how the legal system works."

"Quite frankly you're lucky you haven't been arrested as a material witness," Bill added. "I've seen it happen."

Callie looked at them both. "Okay. Well, if the Lollypop Guild is done cheering me up, I'd like to get on to clicking my heels three times and saying there's no place like home."

Laurie cleared his throat. "Yeah, well…I have some paperwork to do before dinner. Bill?"

"Yeah, fine," Bill said, stepping a little closer into the room. Laurie frowned, shrugged, and left them to it. "Callie?" Bill said, getting her attention. "If you're feeling cooped up…I mean, what Laurie said before was right. I was a bodyguard for a couple of celebrities. It wouldn't be any problem if you wanted to…go out."

"With you?" She resisted the urge to smirk a bit at the suggestion. It sounded like they were going on a date.

"I'm actually a lot of fun at parties," Bill said cheerfully—although she swore she saw a tint of a blush on his cheeks. "And I know a good bar not too far away from here. Doogans. The woman who runs the bar makes the best martinis in town."

"I'm a bit of a bourbon girl myself," Callie said. "But that sounds good, actually. You don't think we'll annoy Laurie if we don't invite him?"

"I'm sure what Dr. Gregg doesn't know won't hurt him."

Callie considered it for a minute. She had just met Bill…Laurie trusted him enough to leave her in his care, but she could see the expression on both her father and brother's face. "Yeah. Would it be all right if I invited my brother?"

"No problem. You need some alone time? Just call extension seven-eight on the phone when you're ready an we'll go. I'm going to change into some civies." He pulled at the sides of his blue scrubs. "This is more of a day look." He grinned at her and left.

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Vincent: So I thought I was supposed to be in this chapter lots and lots.

Me: Well, uh…

Vincent: That's what you said. "Lots and lots." I was barely in it for two frickin' minutes! That's your definition of lots? And who the hell is this Bill guy? Why does he look familiar?

Me: Because he's in all my stories. He's the only one I think that's in all of them.

Vincent: (_disbelieving_) All your stories? He gets to be in _all_ your stories?

Me: He has different names. I call him Nate in my Dukes of Hazzard story. And in the Convergence story he goes by the name of Alex Tully. He does all kinds of things. He's very versatile. Usually he plays Malcolm Reynolds in Firefly, but I've never written a Firefly fic. Maybe I should…

Vincent: (_beyond outraged_) I can't believe you're mooning over another guy in my fic.

Me: Well, I can't play too easy to get, can I? You'd lose interest.

Vincent: You need a trip to the closet.

Me: Oh sht. No, really, that isn't—

(The _closet magically appears behind them and opens, the inside dark and inviting. Vincent seizes the writer and shoves her in, her protesting all the way._)

Vincent: (_standing in the doorway_) Go read and review, folks. This may take a while.

(_He shuts the door behind him_)


	6. Standing Outside A Broken Phone Booth

Chapter Six -- Standing Outside A Broken Phone Booth… (from the song by the Primitive Radio Gods)

It turned out that Callie didn't want to go directly to a bar and start drinking. She wanted to visit Annie.

It was late in the day – the sun was starting to set. Visiting hours would be ending soon, but the staff was familiar with Callie. She led Bill – her brother had promised to catch up with them as soon as he got off shift, at the bar – down the winding hallways and found Annie's room.

Annie's monitors showed that her condition was stable. It would take some time, the doctors said, for her to come out of her coma. It might take months. And it was also possible that she might never come out of it at all. When she did come out, she would need physical therapy to relearn how to walk, and speech therapy to relearn how to talk.

Vincent may as well have killed her, Callie thought bitterly. But she put it in the very farthest back part of her brain as she reached the room. She picked up the book that sat on the bedstand – the nurses were kind enough to leave it there for her – and started her usual conversation.

"Hi, Annie," she said, "this is my friend Bill. He's watching out for me a bit."

Bill waved at the unconscious form and said, "Hi, Annie! Nice to meet you." On the drive over, Callie had learned that his father had been in a similar coma when Bill was a teenager, and he had learned all the ways of communicating with comatose people. It didn't bother him, but he considerately offered to wait in the hallway.

Callie got three quarters of the way through the next chapter when she heard someone come to the door. She looked up and saw…

"Max," Callie said, almost dropping her book. She stood up, stunned. "Max, what are you—"

Max walked in. He looked pale, and slightly shaken. "My mother…she's at this hospital. Callie, you haven't been at work in two weeks—"

"I quit," Callie said softly. Two weeks…that was all it had been? It felt like a lifetime ago.

"I don't blame you," Max said softly, and looked to Annie. He looked utterly heartbroken. "I saw in the papers…I recognized her name. I just didn't connect it to…"

"Yeah," Callie said, suddenly very uncomfortable. She already felt responsible enough for Annie, and having Max here…that night, Annie had gotten out of his cab, right in front of her. Vincent had nearly gotten into Max's cab instead of hers. But Max had been distracted. Thinking about Annie? Callie believed so.

Max raised his hand and she saw he was holding a business card. "So," Max said, looking at her through his gold-rimmed glasses, "you were there?"

She nodded, mute.

"God Callie…I'm so sorry." He looked down, at Annie again. It was gut-wrenching, the tension in the room.

"You're sorry?" she burst out breathily. "Max, I never realized…I mean, you knew her?"

"Just a little," Max admitted. "I was thinking of asking her out, but…well, she gave me her card." He gave a little, self-depreciating laugh. "She gave me her card, you know? I thought, wow, this is the woman of my dreams, and she's making the first move on me! I could hardly believe it."

Callie nodded. She thought she was going to cry. "Well, I was going to head out. You know, if you want, you should stay and talk to her for a while. Talk about what you talked about in the cab."

Max looked at her, confused. "In the cab?"

"I was behind you," Callie admitted. "I saw her get out of your cab. That's how I knew where she was."

Max shook his head. "You're going to have to explain all of this. I mean, what happened? The papers were so vague. They said she was shot on the MTA by an unidentified shooter, but…" he shook his head again, baffled. "You were there? How?"

Callie took a deep breath. She shouldn't tell Max this, but she felt that she owed him something. "I was there. The man who shot her had me as a hostage. I tried to stop him, but…he was a professional. I didn't stand much of a chance."

"So you were a witness? Shouldn't you be in protective custody?"

"They're working on it," Callie said, inching toward the door. "Look, don't tell anyone what I told you, all right? It's a big confusing mess right now. But stay and talk to her, Max. She'll appreciate it, a lot."

By then, she had made it to the doorway. She turned her head and looked at Bill, and amazingly enough, the man read her perfectly.

"Callie," he said, standing up and coming around into the doorway with her – hospital doorways were always wide enough for two or three people – "You ready to go?"

"Yeah," she said, and tossed Max a smile. "It was good to see you, Max. Keep in touch."

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"You need to go easy on that bourbon," Bill said a few hours later, as they sat at the bar. It was a very nice place, with a large, rectangular bar that floated like an island in the middle of the room. There were large LCD televisions in every corner of the room, and one of them just inside one of the corners of the bar itself – two of them were on a hockey game, and the other three were on basketball.

Callie looked at him. It was a mistake, ordering bourbon. She hadn't had any since that night, and she shouldn't have had any now – she needed to change her drink preference. The taste of it in her mouth, and sitting here with Bill – who had a habit of looking around him every so often, just the way Vincent had done – was not helping her mental state at all.

"Fine," she said. "Let's go with Jack Daniels. Or Jim Beam. Or fuck it, let's do tequila shots."

"Not without me," Ray said, sitting down beside her. He looked at his sister, her nose and cheeks already red, and then to Bill. "What's going on?"

Bill gave him a sidelong look. "You must be the brother. I can see the resemblance."

"Ray, this is Bill, my bodyguard," Callie slurred. "Bill, this is my brother the cop. A cop, a bodyguard, and a college student walk into a bar—"

"How many has she had?" Ray asked.

"About three," Bill replied. "Don't worry, I drove here. We went to go see Annie, and they had a visit from some guy named Max. I think that had something to do with it."

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," Callie grumbled. "And I'm not drunk, I'm just…buzzed."

"Buzzed like a chainsaw," Ray remarked. "You saw who? Who's Max?"

"Max is the guy driving the cab that Vincent _almost_ got into _before_ he got into _mine_," Callie said a bit too loudly. "It could have been Max's night of hell on earth instead of mine, and maybe he could have saved Annie. He liked her, you know. They were gonna date."

"Maybe we should go get some food," Ray suggested, although the veneer was thin. Bill chuckled.

"Me, I'm never gonna date. Never again. Not ever."

"Really," Ray said, leaning over and looking to Bill. "What's close? Denny's?"

"Olive Garden up the street," Bill said. "I'll go get the car."

"Okay." Ray slid the empty glasses away from Callie and got out his wallet as Bill left. "You owe me," he told her, putting a couple of twenties on the bar-top. "Come on, let's go eat. You can drink at Olive Garden, they got all kinds of pretty frou-frou drinks for girls."

"Shut up," she giggled, swiping at him. "I gotta pee. You can't follow me to the girl's room, and nothing awful is going to happen to me if you let me out of your site for five lousy minutes." She brushed back her hair. "Really, I'm not that drunk. I'm just pissed."

Ray sighed. "Fine." He stood up and walked over to where he could spot the hallway with the restroom. It was a very nice place that they were in. Clean, large walkways, well lit. He turned back to Callie, but she had her attention suddenly riveted on someone sitting at a table close by.

Ray followed her gaze. The woman was very pretty – Latino, curvy, and about his age. She was getting up, extending her arms to Callie.

"Lupe!" Callie greeted her, coming closer to accept the embrace. "What are you doing here?"

"Drinking, like you are, Cal," Lupe replied. "Drinking a bit less than you, really."

"Ha, ha, you and my brother would make a perfect couple." Callie turned to Ray. "This is Guadalupe Martinez," she told him, "the doctor that Laurie is having treat me for my trauma. See how great of a job she's doing?"

Lupe shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Nice to meet you…Ray, is it?"

"Yeah, Raymond Fanning," Ray introduced himself.

"Junior," Callie supplied.

"Shut up, Opie," Ray teased, swatting her hair. "Why didn't you tell me that your fellow shrinks were so pretty?" He flashed Lupe a smile.

Lupe cocked her head. "You don't look like a cop," she said.

"I get that a lot." Ray held his smile. Damn, this woman was hot. Would it be inappropriate for him to ask his sister's shrink out on a date? He somehow thought so.

"Oh, good, you two can banter while I go pee," Callie said, indicating over her shoulder with her thumb. Ray watched her go, and once she was safely inside, heard Lupe say;

"Oh, there he is."

Ray turned to her. "Where who is?"

"The cop," Lupe said. "It's the way you guys look at things. Now you look like a cop."

"Yeah, well…Callie's been through a lot."

"I know. And I can't really take credit for helping her. Dr. Gregg is doing a lot more for her than I am."

"How long have you worked for Laurie?" Ray asked.

"Pretty much since I got my doctorate. He claims he takes them in young and trains them, then ruins them for anyone else."

Ray laughed. "Yeah, I can see that."

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When Callie came out of the bathroom with a bit clearer of a head, Ray and Lupe were still talking. She paused at the threshold, and then made her way over to an empty seat by the bar. Ray looked over his shoulder at her, and she waved, making more of a sweeping motion away from her, indicating that he not stop his conversation.

To her surprise, Ray did not.

It was nice, seeing him with an attractive woman. Lupe had been more of a friend to her than a therapist. It wouldn't be a bad match, Callie realized.

Then, she also realized that someone had come over and was leaning over her. She glanced up and saw a waitress, holding a tray, containing a thick glass holding bourbon on the rocks.

"This is from the gentleman at the end table," the waitress said, and her eyes held hesitation. Obviously this was not a new thing, but there was also the chance that the recipient of the drink would reject it if the person offering it was considered undesirable. Callie let her set it down and looked over to where the man sat.

It was just not her day for men, Callie realized. This one was also smashingly attractive.

He smiled at her, extending his arm in a toast, and then as the waitress walked away, he approached. He was dark haired, with his hair nicely styled and gelled, longish on top but trimmed at the nape of his neck. He had a smart little goatee, and his suit – deep blue with a widely spaced white pinstripe, and a white silk shirt underneath -- screamed Armani. She instantly wondered if he was Euro-trash, but when he spoke, his accent was all American.

"I hope I'm not intruding," he said.

She just blinked at him, and gave him a bit of a smile.

"May I?" he asked, reaching for the empty chair next to her. He seated himself at a respectful distance, but close enough for them to be in an intimate conversation. "I asked the bartender what you were drinking, I hope you don't mind."

Callie looked at the bourbon. She really had no desire to drink it. After her encounter with Jackson today, all her alarms were going off, but this guy…something about him. It made her hesitate to blow him off.

"Callie, is it?" the man asked. "I'm Rochester." He extended his hand. "Most people call me Chess."

"Chess?" she echoed, shaking his hand lightly. "Not Chester?"

"Oh, no," he said. "Nobody who wants to keep all their teeth."

She nodded. "And are you like Chess? Strategically plotting your every move?"

He gave a shrug with one shoulder. "It never hurts in life to have a plan."

She arched an eyebrow. She suddenly did not feel like humoring him anymore. She looked toward Ray, and he glanced back at her again. Always the cop – still guarding her even while he was flirting. Ray noticed the stranger and gave a slight frown.

"Well," Callie said, rising, empty-handed, "I'm afraid that this is one Queen who just refuses to play." She gave him a tight little grin. "Thanks for the drink." And she walked toward her brother.

Ray saw the exchange, and extended his arm out to Callie as she approached. "You okay," he said once he had her encircled.

"Fine. We need to leave," she said. She glanced at Lupe. "Wanna come? We're going to get something to eat."

"That sounds good," Lupe said. She was looking at Ray, and Callie, if she had been in a better mood at that moment, would have been happy to see that the doctor was also clearly interested. "Where are we going?"

"To the Olive Garden." Ray started to move them toward the door. He was the only one who noticed that the guy was still watching Callie, and he did not look happy.

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Vincent approached the pay phone, reached into his wallet for his credit card – the one with the false name on it – and slid it along the space. The phone gave him a dialtone, and he started to dial the international number.

Trent had not been there. Trent was supposed to be there. Trent never missed a drop. The man's timing was uncanny. And the hackles on the back of Vincent's neck were high up. Something was wrong.

It felt like it took forever to get the connection, but when Peter answered, Vincent knew things were much worse than he thought.

"Where are you?" Peter asked by way of greeting.

"At LAX, on a payphone. I used the credit card."

"All right, that's fine. Has anyone approached you?"

"No…and I have to admit, I'm a bit disappointed. I was hoping to get cash." It was code. An easy code, but a code nonetheless.

"Well, I'm afraid I had to yank him back. Quite frankly I'm impressed you weren't picked up at customs."

"Picked up? For what?"

Peter sighed, and Vincent realized that the other man was very carefully holding back a strong fistful of anger. "You've been identified," he said tightly. "The woman, Callie, her brother is a police detective. He searched the airport after you left and somehow came up with your discarded bag. And he managed to get a set of your prints off the bag. So now they have a record on you from your time in Gary. The unfortunate business with your father. And since Callie provided them with a description, they now have a very actuate likeness of you and your face is on the front page of the international newspapers."

Vincent felt a very uncharacteristic surge of panic. He shut his eyes and drew deep breaths. Bad things were going to happen to him and he had to stop them. But there was no direct target at this point at which to launch his defense. He was at a momentary impasse.

Before he could respond, Peter said, "This is very bad. I didn't realize how bad. I'm afraid that Rochester is now under orders to terminate you with extreme prejudice. I hope you'll understand that I didn't have any choice. I knew it was bad when you left that Calliope woman alive, but I didn't realize you'd been careless with your bag. Were you trying to get caught?"

"I'm coming back," Vincent said, ignoring the question. "And I'm bringing her with me. I'll need transportation from Bangkok. Something that will keep us under the radar."

"Fine," Peter sighed. "I don't understand why I'm helping you."

"Why not? What else are you going to do?"

"Good point. You'd better move quickly."

"So…no bag drop?"

"No. You're going to have to visit Jackson. You'll have to make it look like I didn't help you. Will that be a problem?"

"No. Just tell me where he is."

"At a place called Arcadian Estates, it's a townhouse community. Just don't kill him, V. He's very valuable to me."

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(_Vincent pops his head out of the closet_)

Vincent: Sorry, the writer can't come out and talk to you today. As you can see from reading this chapter, she still hasn't learned her lesson yet.

Me: (_background, distant, faint_) help!

Vincent: Better review quickly. If you ever want another chapter again.

Me: (still _background, distant, faint_) Hey, you be nice to my readers, dammit!

(_Vincent pulls the closet shut, cutting her off_.)


	7. Versions of Violence

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters from the movie, nor the song title.

A/N: To the Jackson fangirls -- Jackson altert!!

Chapter Seven – Versions of Violence (from the song by Alanis Morisette)

Peter was a smart man. He'd been in this business for a long time, although he was only a few years younger than Vincent. He was one of the dozen or so human beings in the world that was powerful and invisible. Money did not have to bring celebrity, not if you had enough of it.

Arcadian Estates was owned by a dummy corporation, and certain apartments were kept empty so that they could be occupied by operatives, depending on the mission. Right now, Jackson had taken up residence in a smaller one, ground floor, so that he could easily get in and out.

Vincent had never stayed at any of Peter's safe houses. He'd never needed to. He didn't like the big cities, where almost all the places like this were located, and part of his routine was to be in and out in one night. That was what made him good. No fuss, no muss.

Ah, the good old days, he thought as the cab pulled up.

It was getting past nine o'clock. He'd gotten this cab at the airport, and the driver was very good. A young African-American, glasses, the kind that didn't like conflict. He was polite but not friendly. Disengaged.

"Hey," Vincent said, leaning forward, "I'm only going to be here for a bit, maybe a half-hour at the most. Think I could persuade you to wait?"

"I can keep the meter running," the cabbie said, "no problem."

"Yeah, well…in case I'm late, I'll give you a hundred, plus the fare, however long it takes, as long as you just keep waiting." Vincent flashed the hundred dollar bill. It was his only one – the rest were all fifties and twenties. He was an all-cash kind of guy, but as Trent had not brought him a bag, he didn't have his usual supply. He ripped the bill in half and handed half to the driver, shaking his hand in the process.

"Yeah, man, sure," the cabbie said.

"Great, here's half, you'll get the other half when I come back," Vincent said. "What's your name?"

"Max," the guy said.

Vincent smiled. He couldn't give his name. On the way here, Vincent had asked Max if he happened to have a newspaper in the cab, and Max had said no, but there was no guarantee he hadn't already looked at one and wouldn't suddenly remember. "I'm Albert," he said, and got out of the cab.

Max pulled into a parking spot along the curb and put the car into park. He glanced at the back seat and saw that Albert's briefcase was still sitting there, plain as day. "Definitely not from around here," he said with a rueful chuckle.

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Vincent pressed his ear against the door. There was no sound. No television, radio, running water…he stayed silent and still for a few minutes, in the empty hallway. Peter always had the marked apartments away from the main paths. Sometimes they were hidden entirely.

When he was sure the apartment was empty, he picked the lock and slipped inside. Moving through the dark, Vincent carefully scoped everything out. He located Jackson's gun – even a lousy shot kept one, it was just pure common sense in their line of work. It was nice – a glock, with a silencer. It was under the bed, on the right side – a very obvious place for people to keep a gun. He supposed he was lucky that Jackson kept a gun at all, now that he thought about it. Jackson really was a _terrible_ shot.

Now, the question was – where was his gear? Vincent had worked with Jackson on a few occasions. He was never quite sure exactly what Jackson did, except for the obvious gathering of intel, at which, admittedly, Jackson was quite good. He knew he didn't like him much – Jackson was a talker. That was probably part of his job, but still, Vincent didn't have to like it. Still, Jackson was no wimp either, and like or not, he respected him.

The first place was the bedroom. Five minutes was spent rummaging through the single closet and the single chest of drawers. There was no way it would be in the living area, and the bathroom was ridiculous…

Vincent moved down the hallway into the kitchen. It was stupid to keep important things in a kitchen – the risk of fire was always highest in a kitchen. Then again, if Jackson had to dump his gear quickly, that would be the easiest place to do it.

Five more minutes. Twenty now. He did not want to be here longer than thirty. He felt the first prickles of anxiety.

No, he had to be calm. Where would be an unlikely place to store waiting intel? Vincent went to the cabinet under the sink – always the least appealing place in any kitchen, as it was filled with pipes and usually cleaners. But as Vincent popped the cabinet open, there was a metal box, about the size of a desk drawer, sitting there. With a padlock on it.

Vincent had never had much time for padlocks. Picking door locks was easy, but padlocks were a pain. Still, he tried it. He would have liked to just take a hammer and smash it, but the amount of noise that would make…and if Jackson came home while he was doing it, it would be like an alarm system to the man the second he walked through the door.

It took him almost ten minutes. His fingers were trembling mildly, and he kept cussing under his breath, but he did hit paydirt. Callie's picture, freshly printed images from a digital camera, smiled up at him. Vincent pulled out the whole box, and was surprised to find how heavy it actually was.

It wasn't all on Callie. There was intel on a few other jobs as well, but Callie's stuff was all on top. Addresses, written notes in Jackson's nearly illegible scrawl, and lots and lots of photographs. Vincent stuffed as much as he could into his suit pockets, and it made a bulge. He would go through it in a bit. Right now he was at the end of his allotment and it was time for an exit.

And that was when he heard the front door click open.

The first thing Vincent did was pull out his gun. It was his now – rammed into the back of his pants, like an idiot. But what choice did he have, he didn't have a holster or anything, not even his switch. Things like that would never make it through security, and he had depended on Trent to bring him a bag. But Peter had to protect his own – if airport security had decided to nab Vincent, Cash could have gone down with him, and that would have been bad for business, not to mention just plain embarrassing.

Jackson walked down the hallway. Vincent heard him toss some papers down with a rubbery thwap onto the coffee table, and then head into the kitchen. The minute he reached for the light, Vincent cocked the gun.

"Don't," he said.

Jackson reacted fast. He had his knife out, but Vincent had wisely already put the silencer on the gun. Crack shot that he was, he shot at the knife, and the bullet hit the blade, bouncing off it and going into the nearby wall. The affect was to send a painful vibration that left Jackson clutching his hand.

"Do it again and the next one goes into your wrist," Vincent said.

"Fucking hell, Vincent. What do you think you're doing?"

Vincent smirked. Jackson was quick, he'd give him credit. "What gave me away?"

"Your stupid hair is reflecting in the window," Jackson replied cockily. "Are you out of your mind? Have you even read the papers?"

"I was in transit. There wasn't any way for me to know until I landed. But yeah, I saw. And when my drop didn't make it, I knew something was up. So I decided to come see you."

"Why me?" Jackson sounded surly. Vincent's eyes had long since adjusted to the dark and he could see the expression on the younger man's face. Blank, unassuming. Jackson was a master of expressions.

"Because your name came up when I was offered the assignment," Vincent said. "And I have a good memory."

Jackson chuckled. "Peter told you to keep him out of it, didn't he?"

That threw him. But Jackson was a talker – his most important skill was the ability to keep people off balance. Vincent was not about to be played. "You know, I know that you have this opinion of my kind of people," he said coldly, glacier-like, putting as much scorn and loathing into his voice as he could manage to convey to Jackson exactly how much he did not appreciate his attitude – and it was easier than he thought, because most if it was coming from his exact dislike of Jackson himself – "that we're just well-trained dogs. But even the best trained dog will eat his master if he's desperate enough. I'm not stupid, Jackson."

"No, you aren't." Jackson's tone was almost conciliatory, but Vincent could tell he wasn't completely buying it. "I've never understood why Peter is so fond of you. If that's what you can even call it. I've had a lot of interesting theories, but I'm not paid to—"

"No, you aren't," Vincent cut him off.

"So, I take it you're here for the stuff on Calliope Fanning?"

Vincent felt his finger twitch. Damn Jackson, he could put so much into that tone of his…"Don't bother," Vincent said. "Your hiding place was pretty easy to find."

"Was it?" Amusement. It flickered in those huge blue eyes, which were glowing slightly, cat-like, in the dim light. "Huh. I'll have to try harder in the future."

A warning bell went off in the back of Vincent's head. Jackson was hiding something.

"What is it, Rippner?" Vincent asked, coming closer. He aimed higher, so that Jackson was staring down the barrel of the gun. "What aren't you telling me?"

"I haven't told you anything," Jackson replied, shrugging. "You're so smart, you've figured everything out for yourself."

That tore it. Vincent reached out and grabbed Jackson by his collar. He yanked him forward and spun him around, shoving him hard against the opposite cabinet. Jackson's spine met the hard marble edge of the countertop and he grunted, then bent over backwards. Vincent had him spread eagle and helpless, and the gun pressed to the underside of Jackson's jaw.

"I have no time for your bullshit," he said. "What don't I know? What's not in your intel?"

Jackson stared upward, not meeting Vincent's eyes. "Peter's going to be very pissed if you kill me," he said calmly. "Even you, I'm sure, have limits."

Vincent pressed the tip of the gun harder, digging it into Jackson's throat. "You willing to bet your life on that? Haven't you heard? I've gone nuts. I've come all the way back here to protect a woman I should have killed. You think I'm playing the game by the rules? You think I have anything left to lose?"

Jackson met his eyes. Blue against green, ice against fire. "On the table," he said. "What I just brought in. The address for St. Anthony's, called Crazy Ants by most of the staff and patients. That's where your girl is. That's where they're hiding her – she just moved today, it was a last minute thing."

Vincent paused. "That was too easy," he said.

Jackson chuckled. The tremor went through his neck and up the metal barrel of the gun. "Rochester got all of this about two hours ago. Two hours, Vincent. Quite frankly, I doubt it matters much now, and I'm not going to risk dying to protect information that's already—"

He didn't get to finish his sentence. Vincent yanked him up, turned the gun around and clobbered Jackson over the head with the butt. The man fell limp, but breathing. Vincent checked the packet before he took it, just to make sure the weasel hadn't been bluffing, and he was rewarded for this extra bit of care.

The address for Crazy Ants was the first thing in the pack.

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Rochester lazily moved up the walk. It was a quiet evening – dogs barking in the distance, traffic rolling by on the nearby streets, people putting out their garbage. It was beautifully, wonderfully mundane.

Nobody in this world took time to appreciate the mundane.

The porch light was on and so was the kitchen light. Rochester moved in the shadows, keeping out of the line of sight. Raymond Fanning Senior was hovering over the sink, probably washing dishes. He had a cop's face, heavily lined. His brow was furrowed in concentration.

How could he be happy? Rochester wondered. The simple answer was, he couldn't. His wife was dead, his daughter was in mortal danger, and he himself had cancer, and hadn't even told his children yet. But it would be over soon, Chess mused. And Ray Sr. would get to die knowing the full extent of himself as a man. So few actually got to do that.

Chess moved along the garage door until he found the back entrance. He did not break the glass, but instead sliced it expertly and used a suction cup to keep it from falling. He reached through, unlocked the door from the inside, and let himself in. It was easy to move silently through the garage. Concrete that was saturated with grease and various other fluids did not echo footsteps as well.

As Rochester entered the kitchen through the side door, he had to be cautious. There was no window on this one so he couldn't see through it, but as he cracked the door he saw that Fanning Sr. was still intently washing the dishes. He was making a bit of a racket, and the radio was on beside him, so when Rochester reached him and slipped the razor blade around his throat, he almost didn't notice.

Not until Rochester spoke.

"If you move, you'll get hurt."

He felt the older man tense, but wisdom and years prevented him from doing anything foolish.

"Pull your hands out of the dishwater and get them where I can see them," Rochester told him, in the casual tone of voice that indicated he was in no hurry.

Fanning obeyed. Wet hands dripped suds onto the floor below. Rochester twitched his shoe to keep it from getting dampened. Then, ever so gently, he moved the knife so that it gave the older man room to move, but not so that it would easily slice through a jugular vein if he was prompted.

"Now turn around."

Fanning didn't look anything like his daughter…except in the eyes. Of course, the first thing that Rochester noticed was the sudden look of surprise on Fanning's face.

"What?" Chess asked.

"Nothing." Fanning's voice was gravelly, rough.

"No," Rochester said with mildly strained patience, "you were surprised. Not when I grabbed you, but when you saw me. Why?"

"I thought you'd…be someone else," Fanning finished with a light shrug.

"Huh," Rochester said. "Vincent?"

The muscles around the old man's eyes tightened. Rochester smiled. "You met him, didn't you?" Rochester reached behind him and yanked out one of the kitchen table chairs, dragging it beside him and turning it around. He indicated for Fanning to sit. "He came to this house, that night, with your daughter. What did she tell you, that he was her boyfriend?" He chuckled. "That was classic. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall and seen that."

Fanning sat down, put his hands on his knees, and looked at a point on the floor.

"So what do you have around here, duct tape, binding cord, anything?" Rochester started to rummage through drawers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the subtle shift in Fanning's body language, saw his eyes rise to glare at him. "Before you do anything stupid," Rochester said, still rummaging, "you'd best know that the second you touch me, you're dead. I'm faster with this knife than a teenage boy popping his cherry. So just a friendly heads up."

In the last drawer, he found what he was looking for. A roll of duct tape, almost new. Rochester scooped it up and used his teeth to pull off a long strip. "Get your hands on the arms," he said, and then ripped the tape with his teeth. He tucked the roll under his arm and then wrapped Fanning's wrist in place. He repeated it for the other wrist, and then, for good measure, did it a half-dozen more times on each arm, until Fanning was bound from wrist to elbow to the arms of the chair.

Rochester put the blade away and expertly stepped on Fanning's free foot as he bent over and bound him from the ankle to the knee against the chair leg. Then he did the other leg. After that, he wound the tape around his stomach and then his shoulders to the back of the chair until he used nearly the entire roll. Smiling, he tossed what was left back onto the counter.

He came around and stood in front of Fanning, folding his arms and scrutinizing him. "So I guess you're wondering why I'm here…or maybe not. It's not everybody's daughter that manages to witness five hits and lives to tell the tale. You guys knew that this was coming and you've done a pretty good job hiding little Callie from me. But sooner or later, Ray, you've got to face facts. I am going to find her. She is going to die. How she dies, however, is going to be up to you."

Ray's chest heaved, but he was well in control of himself. It was an old cop's instinct to be this cool, Rochester knew.

"Vincent didn't kill her because Vincent was old and stupid," Rochester went on, conversationally. "Or maybe he's going through a mid-life crisis, I guess it happens. Me, though, I'm young and hungry." His voice and mannerisms gained intensity as he went on. "I live and breathe this shit and there's really nothing, not even your cop son, that's going to keep me from getting to her. Sure, you're going to run me on a wild chase, that I can admit. You might even keep her from me for a good long while. Now, I have to tell you…that's going to make me frustrated. And when I get frustrated, I get mad. And when I get mad, well, I have to somehow relieve my stress. And that means, what am I going to do to your precious Callie when I get a hold of her?"

Fanning's eyes were slowly gaining a bloodshot look. If he had possessed heat vision, Rochester would be a smear of ash on the floor. The thought made him smile.

"You're going to die, Ray," he suddenly said, softly. "Cancer, isn't it? You only have what, a year left? And it's not going to be pleasant. Cancer eats you from the inside. It's an ugly, painful business. But you know, there are worse ways to die." Rochester had started pacing, lightly, not too far back and forth, but enough. "I know a lot of them. I'm still looking for more. Nobody's coming here, are they? Your daughter is holed up in that insane asylum they call an institute, your son is on shift. We have all night. We could find worse ways to die than cancer. But we don't have to." He stopped and leaned down into Ray's face. "And Callie doesn't have to, either."

To his credit, Fanning hadn't changed facial expressions in the last several minutes. But if looks could have killed…

Rochester smiled gently. "It will be quick. Squish, done, you get to meet your maker without all the agony beforehand. And I give you my word that Callie will get the same. But if you force my hand, first, you get to die the ugliest death I can possibly give you – and trust me, that's considerable. It won't be anything, though, compared to what Callie gets." He leaned in a bit closer, so that he was almost by Fanning's ear. "I could make it last for days, if I wanted."

He felt every muscle in the older man's body coil. He was struggling with himself, a battle he had never imagined fighting before.

"All you have to do is get Callie over here. I'll even wait, so that you can see her die quick and clean before you join her. I'm going to bring you the telephone, you're going to call your daughter's line, and you're going to get her over here, alone. Or you're going to die knowing that before she joins you, whatever you suffer will be nothing compared to what she's going to endure. She's nobody to me. I can think of a million different ways to soil her before I'm done. You're a cop – you've seen the filthy things a man can do to a woman. Imagine all of them, on your precious…baby…girl."

There was a strange noise, and Rochester backed up a bit to figure out what was going on. He realized it was coming from Fanning's throat, and that suddenly, with more force than he would have expected, Fanning hocked the ugliest loogie known to man right across Rochester's cheek.

Rochester closed his eyes. He straightened, made his way over to the counter and found the paper towels. He cleaned himself using warm water, all the while cool as an icicle in January. Fanning, however, had seemed to unleash something else with the wad of flem. A stream of profanity issued from him, until he made himself hoarse.

The assassin patiently waited until his victim was done. Then he pulled the razor blade from his pocket, and made good on his promise.

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(_Jackson and the writer sit on chairs. Jackson has a very large ice bag on his head and the writer looks distinctly bruised. Both look very peeved at Vincent._)

Me: Did you have to hit him so hard?

(_Vincent just smiles smugly_.)

Jackson: I think I have a concussion.

Me: Do you know how many fangirls are going to be pissed off because of this?

Vincent: Bring them on.

Jackson: He's just being pathetic. He just wants attention.

Vincent: (_to Jackson_) You want attention? I can give you more.

Me: And to think, Rochester makes Vincent look like a teddy bear.

Jackson: Well, that's your own fault, you created him.

Me: Oh, I don't need shit from you, too.

Vincent: Actually, she borrowed him, too. Wasn't he in that movie, Ironhead?

Me: Iron_man_. And yes, Robert Downey Jr. plays an excellent psycho.

Vincent: (_with a warning look_) Do you need another trip to the closet?

Me: You'd just better watch your step, buddy.

Jackson: (_to break the tension_) Nice move, putting Max in there, by the way.

Me: Thank you. (_to Vincent_) See? _He_ knows how to be charming.

Vincent: I can be charming.

Me: Nearly making out to death in a closet is _not_ being charming.

Vincent: Why did you have to bring Max into this, anyway?

Me: It was a full circle kind of thing. You needed to get into a cab with him, trust me.

Vincent: Whatever.

Me: (_sighs_) Anyway, I forgot the disclaimer, so I don't own anything. At this rate, I don't want to.

Jackson: Hey!


	8. Death Rides A Horse

Disclaimer: Vincent, Jackson and Max are all pains in my ass.

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Chapter Eight – Death Rides a Horse (from the piece by Ennio Morricone, used in _Kill Bill_)

When he'd left Jackson's, and climbed back into the cab, he had dutifully handed Max the second half of the hundred dollar bill.

"Thirty five minutes," Max said.

"No problem," Vincent replied. "I need you to take me to St. Anthony's. You know where that is?"

"Crazy Ants?" Max echoed. "The looney bin?"

"Pretty much," Vincent replied. "How far away are we?"

"About twenty-two minutes," Max said, starting the cab.

"Good." Vincent thought for a few minutes as Max headed out into traffic. They were a few city blocks away when he suddenly said, "Hey, hang on a second. I want to make a quick detour first." He gave an address. Callie's father's address. If he knew Rochester at all… "How far out of the way?"

"About an extra fourteen," Max replied. Vincent smiled. The guy knew his business.

"Take me there first. I won't be five minutes. Then Crazy Ants. I'll give you another hundred."

"No problem, man," Max said. Vincent settled into silence then. Normally, he would have chatted with the driver, gotten to read him a bit, but he wasn't in the mood. This wasn't like his other missions. This one was personal, and he was distracted by it. It was a bad sign, he told himself. Distractions were just ways to get killed. He had to be doubly careful, but he just couldn't help but wonder…

Callie would have told her father about him. Then again, some little girls kept secrets from their fathers. Callie was, in many ways, still a little girl, although maybe not so much now, since the night they'd spent together.

It sounded so romantic when he put it that way. Was he being romantic about Callie? What did he expect when he found her, anyway? He had no real idea. A natural human reaction to someone seeing a person who had caused them so much grief – and from the last few glimpses he'd had of her that night, he knew she had suffered considerably at his hands – was either anger or fear. Or both. Who knew how it would manifest? He doubted she was stupid enough to attack him, but he had no doubt that she'd try to run away. He had to be careful. Approach the situation with extreme caution. Maybe even make sure she wasn't alone. He might have a better chance if she was with others – the threat of harm to them might make her more docile. It had worked before…with her father…

"We're here," Max said, and Vincent blinked, realizing the cab had stopped. "You want me to go up the driveway?"

"No," Vincent said. He slid out of the back seat. "Hang on a second." He knew Max wouldn't leave him. He'd waited the extra time for him before and knew that Vincent was as good as his word. Still, Vincent felt an urgency to get up the driveway as quickly as possible.

He caught the scent of death before he was half-way there. Fresh death, from the intensity of the smell. It was warm, salty – given time, it would become much more acrid and bitter.

Rochester had gotten in by the side door through the garage. Vincent pulled his gun and moved like a cat in his wake, but when he reached the kitchen, he knew Rochester was already gone.

The bastard had had his fun. Vincent felt an awful twinge in his chest, looking at Callie's father. He'd been a good man, loving his children. Not enough fathers did that. He had had Vincent's respect, even though they'd barely known each other.

There was nothing for it. Vincent turned and headed back out. He had to get to Callie – Rochester was already on his way, he was sure. He'd done this just for fun. He'd known exactly where Callie was already – killing the father was just rubbing salt in the wound, softening her up.

Vincent scrambled to get back into the cab. As they pulled away, he turned and saw another car pull up, this one going up into the driveway. He caught a flash of a familiar face by the streetlight. It was the brother.

"I'll give you two hundred if you can get us to Crazy Ants in half the time," Vincent told Max.

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The group of them didn't make it to the restaurant. Callie threw up on the curb half-way there, and Bill suggested she go back to her room at the institute and get some sleep – she was overstressed. Ray wanted to go with her, but Callie insisted that he not. She wanted him and Lupe to have a nice dinner – in spite of the prelude of vomit, she joked.

She and Bill climbed into a cab, although Callie wasn't happy about it, and he took her back. She took a long shower, and lay down on the bed until the world stopped spinning. It was maybe an hour before she heard a knock at her door.

"Who is it?" she mumbled, but tried to be loud enough to be heard.

"Laurie," came the familiar voice. "I brought some Chinese food. Moo-Gu Gai Pan, your favorite."

Callie pushed the towel off her face, which had been damp from the cold water she'd soaked it in. Now that she was sober again, her stomach was starting to growl, and the mention of her regular dish was enough to jump start her hunger. She got up and let Laurie in.

"So what happened?" she asked as she went back and plopped down on the bed as Laurie put the white bag on the dressing table. "Did Bill call you, or my brother?"

"Uh…both, actually," Laurie admitted, sheepish. "But Bill just wanted dinner and he was asking how he could get a pizza delivered here. I told him I would just bring Chinese, save him the trouble and expense."

"Where is he?" she asked, pulling the bag toward her and digging through it. "How many fortune cookies did you get?"

"He's taking care of a few things down in the patient wing," Laurie said, helping her and himself to the food. He had pulled up the dresser chair beside the bed. "He'll be back soon if you miss him so much."

She looked at him. "Was that jealousy?" she suddenly said, emboldened by the lingering aftereffects of intoxication.

Laurie looked startled, shook his head, shrugged. "Why would I…I mean, that's silly." He shoved a forkful of Kung Pao chicken into his mouth. "I also brought some root beer, I know that's your favorite."

Callie looked at him for a long moment with a faint smile, and then said, "So where are the fortune cookies?"

Laurie handed her the smaller bag. She dug one out, cracked it open, and pulled out the fortune.

"You're supposed to eat those at the end of the meal," he said.

"Sometimes I can't wait," she said. "And besides, I don't know if my stomach can handle Chinese at the moment. A fortune cookie is blander." She took a bite. "See if it stays down."

"What's the fortune say?"

Callie smoothed it out between her fingers. "'Someone is interested in you. Keep your eyes open.'" She frowned. "That's a strange fortune. I've never gotten one like that before. Nowadays they're bland sayings like, 'You're a natural leader' or 'Sunshine and rainbows are good for you.'" She looked up, caught Laurie's blush. Her smile returned. "Eh, who believes these things anyway?" she said, bundling it up and tossing it. "Hand me that root beer."

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Ray and Lupe had a nice dinner that somehow turned out to be a kind of date. Lupe was incredibly attractive, but she was also smart and funny in all the right ways. He had to remind himself that there was a crisis going on. They exchanged numbers, and Ray went to swing past his father's house. It was part of his routine, checking up on his dad, especially now, with Callie being out of circulation.

He felt bad, confining her to the walls of that institute, but safety was the topmost priority. He wished that his father had agreed to go with her. They had had that discussion – Vincent, after all, had visited the house. What if he came looking for Callie there? Ray Sr.'s safety was important as well, but the retired cop claimed he could take care of himself.

Ray was going to try again. There had been a prickling at the back of his neck for the last two hours. It was his cop sense, the thing that told him something was really, really wrong, even when things looked perfectly ordinary.

He caught the thick smell of blood before he was half-way up the walk to the house. He ran the rest of the way. And what he found was the worst thing he'd ever seen in his career, never mind the fact that it was his own flesh and blood that was the victim.

On the wall, written in blood, were the words, "I'm coming, Callie." And there was a drawing there, it looked like a little figure, rounded, stunted. He couldn't quite…

Was it a chess piece? It looked a bit like a horse. Yes, a knight.

Ray stood in the middle of the kitchen, and turned his eyes away from the sight. He pulled out his phone and reported the crime scene. He did not mention that it was his father's house. It didn't matter at the moment. He was a detective. He did things by the book.

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Callie had just finished mopping up the rest of the Moo-gu-gai-pan with one of the "pancakes" that came with it when Laurie's cellular phone went off. He looked down at the caller id.

"It's your brother," he said.

She frowned. "Wonder why he's calling you and not me?" she mused. "Huh."

Laurie looked at her for a second, and then answered. "Yes?"

"Is Callie with you?" Ray's voice was hushed, and it was hard to hear him, as he sounded like he was in his car.

"Yes," Laurie said, nonchalant. Something was really, really wrong.

"Leave the room. I'm on my way – is there anyone else with her?"

"Not at the moment…want me to check my files in my office?" It was a cover, to get him out of Callie's line of vision. She was watching him, and he was sure she could hear the concealed panic.

"Whatever you need to do man," Ray said, waiting for Laurie to finish playing his bluff. Laurie lowered the phone.

"I'll be right back," he said, rising. "Ray wants some information."

"I'll go with you," Callie offered.

"No, hang on…I'll page Bill." Laurie went back to the phone. "Hang on a second, Ray."

"Hurry, man." Ray's voice was…strange. As if he were pretending to be someone else. Straining to be…

Just then there was a light knock at Callie's door, and it popped open. Bill appeared, looking a bit disheveled. "We've got a few problems down in the ward," he said. "I'm going to have to go back—"

"Watch her a minute," Laurie said to him in a low voice, giving him a very pointed look. Bill, who was very intuitive, instantly understood that something had happened, but he kept his mouth shut.

"What is going on?" were the last words he heard from Callie before he closed the door. He started the walk down the hallway, trying to get distance between him and her, but not too much.

"What _is_ going on?" he echoed to Ray.

"Dad is dead." The words were choked. "He's dead, Laurie. My father, Callie's father…I just found him at the house. He had been tied to a chair and cut to fucking shreds." He was barely holding it together now. "I'm en-route. I'm taking Callie and we're getting the hell out of town, or something. I don't know, but I can't…I can't…"

"Ray, calm down," Laurie said, keeping his voice cool and level. "You're upset, it's natural."

"I'm a few minutes away," Ray said between gasping breaths. "I'm…I'm coming…oh shit…" and he must have dropped the phone because there was a thud.

"Fucking hell," Laurie murmured.

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Callie stood up. All of her alarm bells were going off. Bill blocked her way.

"Something is wrong," she said.

"And if it is," Bill told her calmly, "Laurie will handle it. Meantime, you need to stay close to me."

"But you have to go down to the ward," she argued. "I have to know—"

Bill caught her by the forearms. He was considerably strong, and he met her, eye to eye. "Callie, you aren't going to panic. You're going to stay calm. Whatever is happening, you'll know about it soon enough. The ward can handle things without me for a minute."

Callie looked back at him, and for a minute, she seemed to acquiesce to his suggestion. She turned away, and then, slick as an oiled snake, she charged past him, getting just under his left arm and to the door.

Bill was only thrown for a moment. He was on her heels, ready to grab and restrain her if necessary, but she came to a sudden halt when she realized that Laurie was only half-way down the hallway. He was deathly pale, almost translucent. Her unexpected stop caused Bill to slap into her from behind and they both stumbled.

Callie saw Laurie's face, and said in a forceful tone, "Tell me what's going on."

Laurie couldn't speak. It wasn't his place to tell her…but Ray had been near hysterical – for Ray, anyway – and there was no telling how long it would take for him to get here and deliver the news. It might be best if he…

"LAURIE!" Callie shouted, stepping up right into his face. "What the fuck is going on? Tell me right now, _right now!_"

He looked down at her. His heart was breaking…he had known Ray Sr. for a long time, they had been friends, as much as any two in their professions could be.

Bill got Callie by the shoulders, ready to restrain her. She struggled against him, elbows and heels. "_Laurie_!" Her voice was at the top of her lung capacity now, shrieking like the squeals of an engine in bad need of a good oiling. "Tell me, please, for the love of God, tell me!"

"Your father is dead," came a voice, not Laurie's, from behind him, a bit of a ways down the hall. All three of them looked.

It was Vincent.

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Vincent had paid Max everything he promised, and got up the walk as quickly as he could. Once he was sure that Max had driven away, he calmed himself and found the back entrance. In the packet of papers he'd stolen from Jackson had been the security codes to get him into the institute. Without it, he wouldn't have had a chance.

But that meant Rochester had it, too. He had to haul ass.

Surprisingly, they were easy to find. He could hear Callie shouting at someone named Laurie—the doctor who was helping her write about him, he realized. She was almost hysterical. He followed the noise.

They didn't see him approach. Vincent dared it as close as he could, but stopped just short of being within eyeshot. They would hear him, though.

Callie was with another man as well, who was attempting to restrain her. He looked formidable – he had a bodyguard's appearance, but was dressed in scrubs. An orderly, maybe a bit more.

From Callie's twists and turns, he could see that she was unarmed. In only jeans and a t-shirt, there was nowhere for her to tuck a gun except into her waistband, and it would have fallen out with all the ruckus she was making.

He had to get her to come to him. And there was only one way to do that. He had to make her rush him. And there was only one way to do that, too.

Finally, her voice screeched, cutting through his eardrums. "_Laurie! Please, for the love of God, tell me_!"

She didn't know, but they did. So he ended the suspense for them.

"Your father is dead," he said.

The suddenness of his voice surprised even him. All three turned and looked at him, with different levels and flavors of shock. The bodyguard, that Vincent could get so close and he not know it; the doctor, that Vincent was even there, and privy to such information; and of course, Callie.

She looked at him at first in disbelief. Then it melted into anger, and something else…hatred. Blistering, freezing hatred. He'd been looked at like that a few times in his life. Also by someone he'd had an emotional attachment too. It felt the same. He was surprised.

But she did what he expected. At the delivery of such news, she screamed, wordless, and broke from the two men flanking her. They shouted her name, but it was too late. She had her hands out, as if to strangle him, but he easily side-stepped her, grabbing her wrist and twisting her arm. She flopped back against the wall, and he turned to the other two.

He aimed at the wall and fired.

The doctor, who walked with a cane, ducked down and scrambled back, self-preservation kicking in. He did, however, start to shout Callie's name. The bodyguard was quicker, getting back and slipping into a crevice to shield himself. Vincent didn't know if he was armed -- probably not, working in a place like this. At least not with anything lethal.

Then something unexpected happened. He felt teeth on his wrist, and he jerked. His hand released its hold on Callie's arm, and then, for good measure, she kicked him, getting the back of his knee at just the right angle.

Then she ran away.

Vincent watched her go for a second, then looked back at the other two. The doctor was not a threat – not at this distance. But the bodyguard, he was probably going for a weapon stashed somewhere. Callie had a gun. A good bodyguard would be aware of those things. He could easily go get it if he knew where she kept it.

Which bought him a little bit of time. So he turned and ran after her.

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Me: What? I already wrote the disclaimer.

Vincent: That wasn't very nice what you said.

Jackson: Yeah, I mean, what did _I_ do?

Max: I didn't do anything, either.

Me: Oh, all right. Max, Jackson, I'm sorry. Vincent, kiss my ass.

(_Vincent steps toward the writer. Jackson and Max step back, unwilling to get in his way_. _Then, like a Big Damn Hero, Bill arrives_.)

Bill: That's enough.

Me: What the hell are you wearing?

(_Bill looks down at his "Captain Hammer" shirt_.)

Bill: I got another gig. Joss Whedon's _Dr. Horrible's Singalong Blog_.

Me: Nice gloves.

Vincent: (sarcastic) Yeah.

Bill: Don't you start.

Me: Um, no offense, sweetie, but I'm afraid that Vincent is going to hurt you.

Rochester: Then I'll help.

(_Rochester appears in his Iron Man costume_)

Me: (_throws up hands_) This is not a superhero fic! Both of you, out of the costumes, now!

(_Bill and Rochester look at each other, shrug, and start stripping_.)

Me: Whoah, hey! Vincent, stop laughing!

Vincent: I'm sorry. But you always get what you ask for.

Me: All right, show's over! Everybody go review! Geeze…


	9. Shut Up And Let Me Go

Disclaimer: I don't own anything from the movie Collateral, Red Eye, Iron Man, or anything Joss Whedon.

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Chapter Nine – Shut Up and Let Me Go

Denial. It was usually the first step. She didn't believe her father was dead.

No, wait, it had been anger. She'd rushed at Vincent, absolutely believing that he had done it, but no, denial had come quickly, pushing her into panic mode. She ran away, and her intent was to get out of the building, to get back home, to see for herself.

But fear was pushing at both of them. The horror of the news he'd delivered seemed to be in competition with the horror of Vincent's presence. She heard him behind her, heard him call her name once or twice. She had to get away from him. Everything depended on it.

She didn't have a chance.

They rounded some corner, and her ankle twisted in her rush. She made only a light fumble, but it was enough. He slammed into her from behind, and mashed her into a wall, taking the breath from her lungs.

She tried to scream, but didn't have the air. He pulled back for a second and spun her around, and she looked up into his face.

This wasn't happening. It was a nightmare, brought on by her drinking. She was actually still asleep in her room, and she was going to wake up any second—

Her breath came back. She managed to get the first part of a scream out before his hand nearly stuffed itself inside her mouth. His thumb went into her jaw, pressing hard on a nerve that caused her to wince. Then, with a power she didn't know a person could have, he forced her jaw to close. Her teeth ground together painfully, but she had a second surge, and started to struggle against him, kicking and squirming.

"Stop it," he ordered her in a harsh, breathy voice. He was so close to her – bodies locked together, almost like lovers, but brutal. She could suddenly feel every inch of him touching every inch of her, and intimately – bones grinding, his thigh between her legs, pinning her hard.

She fought harder. It took every ounce of strength she had, but the knowledge of her father's death surged again in her brain, like a bad drug. Vincent swore in a language she didn't recognize, yanked her away from the wall, and the next thing she knew, they were in blackness.

A closet. He'd found a closet and put her in the corner, imprisoning her there, his body the only barrier. He held her tightly until she lost her breath again, and her energy was slowly sapped from her. Finally, realizing there was no getting away, she instead turned her head as far from him as possible.

His face had been pressed right against hers, cheek to cheek, the stubble of his beard scratching her neck in an unwelcome and intimate manner. She could feel his breath, smell his toothpaste. His lips were against her jaw, and she could hear him murmuring things into her ear, things her brain couldn't process.

"Calm down, breathe," she finally understood. His hand was against her mouth again, had been this entire time, and somehow he had her lips smashed so tightly against her teeth that she couldn't begin to open them. But the smell of him, and the taste – it assaulted her, filled her, until she felt like she was practically inside him, or he was inside her.

She twisted her neck, trying to gain some room. Finally, he said, his mouth causing her earlobe to move with the motion, "I'll take my hand away, but you can't scream again. Understand? Nod if you understand."

It took a few seconds for her mind to comprehend, but she did. Slowly, she jerked her head up and down. He lowered his hand and clean air filled her nostrils. She stretched her lips, moistening them. Damn, his taste was even more intense.

"Hurry up," she bit, her voice raspy.

"Hurry up what?" he asked, looking at her carefully.

She glared at him. It was accompanied by a heavy sneer of her upper lip. "Kill me. Like you did my father. Kill me quickly. You owe me that much."

He blinked. She thought he'd come to kill her. Well, it was a natural assumption and he couldn't blame her. Still…"I'm not here to kill you."

"Liar." She turned her head away. "You're just such a liar. You've never told the truth, not once."

"I've never lied to you," he said, feeling indignant, in spite of the trauma of the situation. "I'm not going to kill you, Callie. If I was, I would have done it in the hallway. I would have just shot you, like anyone else. Why would I be bothering with all of this?"

"Because I ran away from you," she said, with an insanely calm kind of logic that he couldn't fault. "I rushed you in the hallway before you could get a good aim, and then you didn't want to risk misfiring when you were chasing me. So just get it over with!" Her voice rose, and he pressed a finger to her lips, hard.

"For the third, and last, time, I'm not here to kill you. If I'd wanted to kill you, I would have done it long before tonight."

"Whatever," she spat, words distorted but understandable behind his imposing digit. "You killed my father, didn't you?"

He looked very serious. "No, I didn't."

"Liar!" Now she was loud, and he was going to gag her if she kept it up. He grabbed her face, squeezing her cheeks in with his fingers and thumb, causing her lips to protrude.

"I told you to be quiet," he hissed at her, his spit and breath fanning over her face. She winced, closing her eyes.

"You killed him," she whispered, eyes still tightly squeezed shut. "I know you did."

"No, you don't," he spat back at her with contempt. "You don't know shit, and you never have, and at this rate, you never will. I didn't kill your father, and if you say I did again it's really going to piss me off."

She opened her eyes. How they blazed at him! "Is that supposed to scare me? You getting pissed? You don't know pissed, asshole!" she growled, starting to wiggle again. It would have been impressive if she hadn't been talking through overly-puckered lips, caused by the hold he still had on her face.

And to her astonishment, he chuckled. "No, sweetie, it's _you_ that doesn't know." And then he kissed her.

She protested with a loud, angry whimper – as loud as it could get with his lips squashed over hers. He pulled back, sure now that he had her full attention. He kept his eyes level with hers, his face only an inch away from hers.

"Now listen to me, very carefully. _I did not kill your father_. But the man who did is coming here to kill you. I'm here to protect you, you stupid bitch."

She did not believe him. It sparkled in her eyes, like light glinting off sharp metal. And the sudden burst of profanity, directed at her, surprised both of them. "Why?" she demanded.

Vincent did not answer. He pulled his gun and showed it to her. "See this? It's neat and simple. Painless, mostly, unless people try to be cute. And I'm good with it. But this other guy, his name is Rochester—"

He saw recognition dance across her face. He pushed it aside, intent on asking her later.

"—is a different kind of animal. And if he gets a hold of you, Callie, it's going to make everything that happened to you that night with me look like a romantic evening at a fucking amusement park. Do you understand?"

He let it sink in for a second, and then was quite satisfied to hear her say, "Yes."

"Now, you and I are going to walk out of this closet, and we're going to leave the building. You're going to come with me and I'm going to take you somewhere safe. Do you understand?"

She looked puzzled, and still insanely angry, but she nodded.

He tucked the gun away, seized hold of her upper arm painfully hard, digging fingers through muscle until they nearly hit bone, and dragged her behind him. He cracked open the closet door, and when he was sure that the hallway was empty, he stepped out, her with him. They managed to get down the hallway and turn two corners before there was a loud click behind them.

"Let go of my sister," Ray Fanning said.

Vincent froze. He'd been watching, but the corridors were dark. He'd been thinking too much about exactly what was going to happen next…he hadn't been watching carefully enough, and this guy had now snuck up on him.

He was going to regret this, but it was necessary.

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Callie could not believe that this was happening.

"I said let go," Ray said again, calmly. Callie felt Vincent's fingers unclench, felt the blood start flowing again. But she didn't move.

"Callie, step away," Ray told her. There was something really wrong with his face. It was wild – his normally smoothed back hair was going in all directions, bent and kinked down across his forehead and even into his eyes. The hand gripping his firearm, pointed levelly at Vincent's head, seemed to tremble. "Now turn around!" he ordered Vincent.

Vincent turned. Carefully, but unhurried, and certainly unconcerned. Callie suddenly had a terrible flash of that first moment in the alley…when she realized what Vincent was…those two street punks had had a gun right in his face, and he had killed them in two seconds. Probably less.

"No, Ray," she said, her voice scratchy. "Don't."

"Be quiet Callie," Ray ordered her sharply. To Vincent, he said, "You son of a bitch. You monster. How could you do that to—" His voice cut off, choked. His hand was shaking a bit more now. "You…bastard…"

"Ray," Callie warned, "Ray, please!"

"SHUT UP!" Ray barked at her. Callie saw Vincent move, saw his hand go to his back waistband, where the gun was tucked. She remembered the move, remembered it as clearly as if she'd just seen it two minutes ago. And she lunged forward, grabbing her brother around the waist and tackling him to the floor.

His gun went off and plaster from the ceiling showered down on them. There was yelling and a commotion, and when Callie looked up, it was Bill who was standing over her, asking her if she could get up on her own, making sure she wasn't injured.

Vincent was gone.

Bill pulled her to her feet and Ray dragged himself up. Everyone was talking at once – Bill asking her questions, Ray swearing at her, demanding to know why she'd done that, and then Bill trying to tell Ray to calm down, and more swearing from Ray.

"SHUT UP!" Callie screeched, a few centimeters away from Ray's face. The tactic seemed to work – Ray stopped talking, but only for a second. His next words were much, much worse than any profanity.

"Dad's dead."

In her mind, she wanted to say, "I know." She wanted to hug him, she wanted to cry with him. But her brain had hit its maximum point, and this confirmation, coming from her brother, was just too much. Systems shut down. Everything had to reboot.

And she fainted.

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Consciousness was almost more of a shock than the faint. It was as if Callie's brain had just suddenly realized that it was sleeping, and that it shouldn't be. She drew in a sharp breath and half-rose off the bed. Blinking wildly, she realized she was back in her room, at the institute, and someone was with her, talking to her in a soothing tone.

"It's okay," Laurie said, sitting on the bed beside her. "You're okay, you're safe."

She looked at him, made a strange choking sound, and then fell back again. "I'm not okay," she croaked. It sounded horrible.

Laurie sighed, deeply. "I know. Here, drink some water. It's cold."

Callie pushed herself up onto her elbows, moving slowly, because her head felt swimmy. Laurie pressed the straw to her lips, but she spat it out.

"I can't drink water through a straw," she grumbled.

He frowned at her. "Why not?"

"Pet peeve," she answered. He sighed at her in annoyance and removed the straw.

"Don't choke," he said, tipping the edge of the glass against her lips. She drank a little at first, and then nearly drained half the glass. "Easy," he warned, and put the glass back.

"What happened?" she asked, still feeling fuzzy.

"You passed out. It must have been shock." Laurie had his cane between his legs and was leaning on it with his wrists crossed over the handle. "Do you remember what happened?"

She lay back down, blinking rapidly. Yes, she remembered. As if it were all there in a picture and all she had to do was look to take in the whole thing. Every single detail sharp and clear. She drew a heavy breath, and then pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes.

"Yeah," she said, and then the tears came. She was surprised that she had the energy to cry them, but they came. She felt Laurie stroking her shoulder, and she popped back up again, clinging to him. He held her closely, cradling her.

She wasn't sure how long the storm lasted. She knew it felt good to be in Laurie's arms. She knew she was in the only safe place in the world at that moment. Or at least the only place that _felt_ safe. Then she realized that Laurie was talking in a soft voice, and it wasn't to her.

"Going to be a while," came the reply. Callie lifted up her head and peeked over Laurie's shoulder to see Bill just inside the doorway. He looked like hell…she almost felt sorry for him. "He wasn't supposed to leave."

"He's not going to get into trouble," Laurie grumped in disgust. "That'd be stupid. He had an emergency and good reason to leave the scene. See what happened here?"

"What are you talking about?" Callie asked, wiping her cheeks and sniffing hard.

"Your brother," Laurie said. "He had to go answer questions. Police procedure. Now that you're awake, there's a detective outside who wants to talk to you, too. And there's two police officers guarding your door, and a third patrolling the windows outside that wall." Laurie pointed to the small windows, barred as they were.

"Fuck them," Callie growled. "I don't want to talk to anybody."

"I know," Laurie said soothingly. "But you're going to have to. In a little bit."

She looked at him sourly. Then she slumped back against the pillows of her bed, dejected. "Who cares? What are they going to do to me, throw me in jail? What can anybody do to me right now?"

Laurie and Bill exchanged looks. Callie was a rollercoaster and it was no surprise. She was sinking into the black, and as much as they wanted to help her, she just needed time.

"You want to be alone?" Laurie asked softly.

She thought about it for a moment, and then sighed. "Yeah. Please. I just want to…I don't know." She slid farther down, and turned so that she was curled away from them. "I just want everyone to leave me alone."

Laurie patted her lightly and got off the bed, following Bill out of the room. "If you need anything, just shout," Laurie said, and closed the door behind him.

Callie lay on the bed, trying to clear out her head. Now that she was alone, she realized it was a mistake. She didn't want to be alone. Being alone made it harder to deal with the truth that her father was dead.

Her father was dead.

But who had killed him?

Vincent swore he didn't. Not that his word meant much…but just the fact that he was here and she was still breathing spoke worlds. He told her, quite forcefully, as if offended, that he wasn't going to kill her.

Then what the hell was he doing here? Who was his target?

He'd said he was going to protect her. He'd tried to make her leave with him. It had to be more manipulation, more bullshit. More of him using her to get what he wanted. She was an easy mark, he knew that. He could use her and dispose of her and never have to worry…

A rational voice in her head spoke up, uninvited. It pointed out that Vincent had explained to her that Rochester, the man she had briefly met at the bar, had killed her father. Why would he do that? He also said that Rochester was coming to kill her. That didn't surprise her too much – she'd been waiting for someone to try and kill her for almost three weeks now. It seemed a relief to finally have a solid place to put that fear.

She rolled onto her back and shut her eyes. Nothing made sense…her brain couldn't be working right. Vincent couldn't care if she lived or died -- he didn't believe there was any good reason to live or to die. Not for anyone, not even himself. So why would he bother? Why would he go through so much trouble for her? It had to be a trick. A plan. A scheme. Nothing else made sense.

And then her brain did what she had wanted it to do all night. It went blank. Precisely, it went blank because there was suddenly a hand across her mouth, and an unfamiliar weight straddling her hips. Her hands flew up as her eyes opened, and she saw only a dark blur as the figure straddling her managed to get both her wrists pinned above her head in its other hand.

Finally, she got her eyes to focus. And what she saw did not surprise her. It was the man from the bar, who called himself Chess.

Rochester.

He smiled down at her. "Having a rough night, Calliope love?"

She didn't even have the strength to glare at him.

"Aw, poor baby. You're probably in that stage right now where you just don't want to live anymore. Usually happens in severe depression. But you know, it can always, _always_ get worse."

He had a strange way of talking. A wiry kind of intensity that seemed to run through him like a live current of electricity, and at the moment, he seemed to have it barely under control. He was a colossal thunderstorm hiding behind fluffy white clouds. The rumble of his thunder echoed in the distance, threatening.

"Fuck you," she managed under his hand, muffled as it was.

"Well, actually," he said, looking thoughtful, "that _is _on the menu. But somehow, baby, I'm thinking that if we get into it right _now_, it'll be a rush job, and neither of us will leave satisfied. Now, you promise to be a good girl and I'll take my hand away, and we can talk like partly-civilized people, except for the whole me-straddling-you thing. Otherwise, you can scream and fuss, and watch me kill some more people tonight. Do you really think you could take that, sweetums?"

She shook her head.

"Then you're going to play nice for now and be quiet?"

She nodded. There was apathy in her eyes, and it was throwing him off. But he took his hand away, and she stayed silent.

"You're the one who killed my father," she said in a dead voice.

"Oh, so my reputation proceeds me," he said, sounding satisfied. "Did you get to see my work personally?" His answer was the lethargy in her eyes being smoldered by a slowly building white-hot rage. This seemed to excite him. "You know, I'd heard you were a firecracker, but up until now I wasn't believing the stories."

"Go ahead and do whatever you like," she said, her words coming from the bittern cavern that had replaced her heart. "Vivisect me for all I give a shit. You'd be doing me a favor. Dying can't hurt more than living right now."

"Ah, that's the grief talking. You know, sometimes I do get ahead of myself. When we dance, sugar, I want to make sure that I've got all of your attention. It's just no fun when the other party's mind is somewhere else. I'm pretty selfish – I don't like sharing you with anyone else." His eyes sparkled. "And right now, I'm doing just that, aren't I?"

She narrowed her eyes. "I don't know what you're rambling—"

"Vincent," Rochester said, smiling like a crocodile. "Your knight in shining – well, more like tarnished – armor. He was here, wasn't he? I can smell his aftershave on you." Rochester dipped down his head, taking a heavy sniff of her neck. She tried to shy away but there was nowhere to go. "Hmm…very uncharacteristic. You know, he used to be so good at this job. Not artistic, like me, but very efficient and effective. He's still got some skills, but he's got a big old weight hanging off his leg right now, and it's going to slow him down."

"You're crazy."

He chuckled. "Spoken like a woman in denial. I can't blame you, it's not exactly flattering. But he's going through some serious effort to keep you alive. Which means that you and I can't enjoy our private time until he's out of the way."

She scowled. "So you can't kill me until after you've killed Vincent? Why?"

"Because I don't rush for anything," he said in a slow kind of purr. "The thought of being interrupted…unbearable. So I'll let it ride for now, let the anticipation build. It'll be so much better that way."

"Why not just do it quickly and get it over with!" she barked, a bit too loudly.

He glared at her. "You don't tell Van Gogh how to paint sunflowers, do you?" And then, abruptly, he smiled, and stood up. He backed up, using the footboard of the bed, and reached up toward the ceiling, where a large vent sat in the middle. It slid out easily in his hands, and he let it fall with a loud crash that made her jump. Then, as if he could fly, he disappeared up into the opening, vanishing without another sound.

The cops came in, summoned by the crash. They only saw Callie, sitting on the bed, looking at Rochester's escape route. They tried to find him, and came up empty.

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Me: Are we going to do one of these every time?

Jackson: You sort of have to. You've set up a pattern and if you skip it, people will notice.

Vincent: And then they'll come looking for you, and this cab. That's not good.

Me and Jackson: Huh?

Vincent: Sorry, wrong movie.

Me: No, it's the right movie, just the wrong part. And that really, really wasn't nice to call Callie a stupid bitch. I'm going to get complaints.

Vincent: Well, that's your fault. I mean, how intense did you have to make it all, anyway? And why the hell did _I_ have to find her dad?

Me: I dunno, I thought it was poetic. Or something. Look, it was hard enough to decide to off him, let alone how he got offed. And come on, we waited like eight freaking chapters for you and Callie to finally reunite! There were going to be some sparks and not all of them pretty as fireworks.

Jackson: Where did Bill and Rochester go?

Me: Bill had to get back to his gig with Joss Whedon. And Rochester…well…I don't want to talk about it.

Vincent: What are you babbling about?

Me: Well, turns out Callie is a Marvel fangirl, and…well…

Vincent: Oh, no! That's just going too far!

(_Vincent runs out of the room_.)

Jackson: Is that true?

Me: No, I just said that to get a moment's peace. Okay, everybody, go review!


	10. I Hate Everything About You

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.

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Chapter Ten: I Hate Everything About You (from the song by Three Days Grace)

Stupid, Vincent told himself. It had been stupid from second one. He'd gone in there half-cocked, half-crazy, like some idiot brash rookie.

But Callie had known. She'd known very well what was going to happen. And she'd saved her brother from him. He had to respect that.

He was screwed. There just was no other way to put it. He was completely, utterly screwed. He should cash in his chips and go home, just forget it. Callie's brother would protect her. He'd do anything to protect her, and she also had that doctor, and that bodyguard…

His mind flashed to the image of Callie's father. Something in him seemed to go dark at the very image of it being her. Although Rochester would do worse to her. Much, much worse.

He drew a breath, and his cellular phone. He started to dial the number. This was bad, he heard a reasonable voice telling him. He shouldn't be doing this, he shouldn't be lowering himself like this. Peter had his limits, after all.

"You really screwed the pooch this time, didn't you?" came Peter's voice, before Vincent could identify himself. Of course Peter knew it was him. Modern technology and all that.

Vincent opened his mouth to reply and found nothing. He was getting out of hand. He was betraying his entire mode of life with this crazy endeavor…

"Oh, and next time you knock someone out, make sure that they're unconscious," Peter continued, in a casual tone.

"Jackson?" Vincent managed.

"You managed to bruise him but not break him. Thank you for not killing him, by the way. I know you wanted to."

"Does he suspect? You asked me to make sure—"

"Jackson does what he's told," Peter assured him. "No, you didn't give anything away. But I'm sure that Jackson is going to be quite confused by his next set of orders, which I've just given him. You are to report back to LAX and go through to private gate fifteen. I've set up the jet. Stay out of sight and just sit tight. I know that's difficult for you, but it can't be anywhere as difficult as it was to make this call." And the line went dead.

Vincent drew a breath. He felt a strange rush of feeling toward Peter, the closest thing he'd ever had in his life to brotherly love. Then it passed, and he caught a cab and headed to the airport.

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They had sedated her. Ray found her in Laurie's office, where they had moved to, where it was sure that there were no large vents leading in or out of the place, and she was lying on the couch, an ice bag over her head. She hadn't been injured, but she had felt like her skull was going to explode with all the stress, and cold seemed to help.

They held each other, took turns crying, and then just held hands. Ray dozed off, exhausted, his head on his sister's lap. Callie was too tense to sleep – every time she heard a noise she looked around for its source.

Bill and Laurie took turns coming in to check on them. The police patrol had moved to the office, and the grounds were being searched, but Callie knew that they wouldn't find either Vincent or Rochester. Men like them didn't get caught. They were ghosts. Demons.

Vincent…the thought of him was strange. He seemed pleasant, compared to the man who had threatened to not just rape her but degrade her in all manner of unseemly ways. Vincent seemed…safe.

Vincent had wanted to protect her. Why was that thought touching just now?

Ray had been convinced, when he'd come in, that Vincent was responsible for their father's death, but Callie had calmly told him she didn't think so. Ray didn't believe her, but neither of them had any heart to fight, so they let it drop. She wanted Ray to wake up, wanted to convince him of her side.

Rochester had frightened her. Frightened her in a way she hadn't known she was capable of feeling. It was a cold, sticky kind of fear, permeating her insides. The feel of him on her, the pressure of his legs, the touch of his breath, the vibration of his voice…she felt as if he still lingered on her, a stain, an odor.

But this was ridiculous. Vincent had done his share of damage. None of this would be happening if it hadn't been for him. And the way he had handled her in the closet….the way he had kissed her, as if marking his territory.

Oh, who the hell knew anymore…she'd been manhandled so much this night…

The door creaked open slightly. Bill and Laurie were together now, both of them looking haggard.

"What time is it?" she whispered.

"Don't remember…after midnight," Laurie managed in a sleepy tone.

"They wanted to take you to the county jail and put you in lockdown," Bill said. "To keep you safe. Not prison accommodations, a bit nicer, but still…bars. Dr. Gregg talked them out of it."

Callie grunted. "You sure that was wise?"

Laurie shrugged. "You want to be in a cage?" He noticed Ray dozing. "Well, I take it back—"

Callie chuckled – the first bit of humor in what felt like forever to her – and then gently shook Ray awake. He popped up with a bit of a start, shaking the couch for a moment. "What?" he said, his voice heavy with sleep.

"My legs were falling asleep," Callie said, smoothing back Ray's mussed hair. "We have to get some better sleep accommodations."

"No, I don't want to leave you," Ray murmured, rubbing his eyes. They were horribly bloodshot.

"We can put you together," Laurie said. "We just need to decide where."

Ray stood up, shaking himself the rest of the way awake. "All right, um…where do you suggest?"

"I've got a few places that I think might work, but then again…well, you'd better check them out."

Ray nodded and turned to Callie. Bill was sitting in the armchair closest to her. "Don't worry," he said, "I got her."

Her brother gave her one last look over his shoulder. She attempted a weak smile back, but when he was gone, she groaned and put her head in her hands. "I don't think I can take any more of this."

A few minutes passed, and then Bill sighed, deeply. "Callie," he said, "tell me what happened earlier tonight. Tell me about Vincent and this other guy, Rochester."

She looked at him, a bit startled. She hadn't expected that question from him, but the way he stared at her, the intensity of his bright blue eyes, threw her off guard. So it came sliding out…and not just the story, but her impressions of the whole thing, her confusion when it came to Vincent, his wanting to take her away to somewhere she'd be safe.

"After meeting Rochester, I'd almost take him up on it," she finished, mostly joking.

Bill looked thoughtful, and then, almost reluctantly, he stood up. "Come on," he said. "Laurie and Ray are waiting."

Callie frowned. "I thought they'd come back when they were ready."

"Just come on, Callie," Bill said. "I don't want you to be left alone. Just trust me. You trust me, don't you?"

Callie shrugged. Laurie had trusted him. That was good enough for her, so she followed him.

The hallway was not quiet. The whole building had been upset by the night's events and there were still rustlings and distant noises that Callie found distinctly unpleasant. She decided, then and there, that maybe she didn't want to work here. Sure, she adored Laurie, but this place was starting to give her memories that she didn't want. It might not work out, she realized.

Laurie…all through this he'd gone above and beyond the call of duty. He'd stuck his neck out for her and she hadn't even properly thanked him. Her father had been his friend…no doubt he too was shaken by the news. And that he'd had to hold it back from her…she wanted to be angry at him for that, but he'd done the right thing. It was Ray's place to tell her.

She heard a buzzing. Bill pulled his cellular phone out of his pocket. He grunted into it a few times, and then turned to her as he hung it up, saying, "Thanks."

"What is it?" she asked.

"That was your brother," Bill said. "He says it's a no go. In fact, they all want to pull out of here. He wants me to get you out of here, discretely, and take you to his precinct."

She almost sighed. "Well, I can't say I'm not happy to leave here, but still…what are they going to do, put me in a jail cell?"

"It might be the safest place for you," Bill said sagely. "And you'd be alone…the real threat in prison isn't the bars, it's the other prisoners."

"Great, solitary confinement. Wonderful." But still, she followed him down the stairs and toward a back exit. To her surprise, a taxi cab was waiting.

"That's…weird," Callie murmured. Bill pulled open the back door.

"Come on," he urged. "We have to hurry."

She let him push her in. She felt tired, malleable. Bill could have come onto her at that moment and she probably wouldn't have had either the energy or the inclination to fight him off. But as she rested her head against the back headrest in the taxi, and watched as the green-glowing sky of L.A. passed by, she started to realize that the route they were taking was lasting a bit too long.

She looked around. They were getting onto the 105 Freeway.

"Where are we going?" she finally asked, turning to Bill. Until now, she hadn't noticed how anxious he looked. "Ray's precinct isn't off the 105."

"I know," Bill said, and was now looking, almost resentfully, at the back of the driver's head. "We're going to the airport."

She jumped. "For what? Did the plan change? Are you going to get me out of town now?"

"Yeah," Bill said, looking at her. There was something strange about it…

"What's going on?" she asked, feeling a new surge of adrenaline. This one, however, felt much more hyper than the ones before it. It made her feel irrational, or more like she was going to crack up entirely. "Where are we going?"

"I told you," Bill said, tearing his eyes away. "The airport. We're getting you out of town."

She shook her head. "Does Ray know about this? I want to call my brother." She reached for her phone, and realized it wasn't there. When had she forgotten her phone? She never forgot her phone. "Hell…let me borrow yours." She reached across, toward his pocket. His hand clamped down across her wrist.

Now she was afraid.

"Bill, please," she said, her voice turning pleading. "I want to talk to my brother. He needs me. That monster Rochester just killed our father and—"

"I know," Bill said, his voice strained. "And he's going to do worse to you. Much worse. This is for your safety, Callie, trust me."

"Trust you?" she spat. She was on the full emotional spectrum now, shifting into defiance and hurt. "How can I trust you! You make these crazy choices for me…who gave you the right? You're not the boss of me! I want to talk to my brother now!"

Bill just stared at her, like stone.

Callie turned to the driver. "Excuse me," she said, her voice clearly indicating that it was an emergency, "could you please turn around? This man is trying to kidnap me!"

The driver turned his head. It was a familiar profile. One she'd seen in a restaurant, sitting across from her…

She gasped and pushed away, huddling in the corner between her seat and the door. "Jackson," she whispered.

"Good to see you too again, Cal," he said with a smirk before turning away.

She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. Tears were forming with the raw rage and fear and panic. "No, no, no, this isn't happening…you are not doing this…" Her eyes flew open and she shot a fist out at Bill. "_They trusted you!"_ she screamed at him, her voice ricocheting around the enclosed space. Her fist smacked him in the shoulder, not hard enough to hurt but enough to get his full attention. "How could you do this to them, to _me_!" She realized she was sobbing.

Bill looked awful. The guilt was all over him, and it seemed like her words had cut him. "I know," he said. "But it's for your safety, Callie. This is the right thing to do."

"LIAR!" she screamed, and lunged at him. Bill was a large man, and he caught her wrists in his hands, pinning them back against the other door of the cab. His face was very close to hers, so close she could see the different shades of blue through his irises.

"Listen to me," he said in a soft, calm voice, still laced with self-resentment. The intensity of it frightened her. "Listen very carefully. You are not safe here. I am not going to let Rochester cut you into pieces, Callie. But Dr. Gregg and your brother don't understand, not like you and I do."

"What do we understand, Bill?" she asked in a soft, tremulous voice.

"We're here," Jackson said, pulling through a gate. They had weaved their way, during Callie and Bill's exchange, through the back roads of the international airport, and found the private hangars. They had stopped, clearing only twenty feet away from a sleek jet that looked like it was owned by someone who had a lot more money than most Hollywood elite.

Bill did not let or go, or move to get out of the car. He looked at her, that intense gaze still there. "Are we going to have any more problems?" he asked in a low tone.

"How much did they have to pay you to do this?" she murmured.

"You don't believe me, that's fine," Bill said, although he couldn't look at her anymore. His eyes shifted away. "You'll see." He pulled back, but didn't let go. She was dragged with him, limp like a doll, through his side of the cab, the door of which Jackson was holding open.

Callie glared at him, and then at Bill. "So what now?" she asked, tone icy.

Bill let go of one wrist but held fast to the other as he walked her across the tarmac. There was a figure waiting for her. He was dressed in a darker suit, a charcoal gray, that off-set his silver-gray hair.

Vincent.

Callie stopped walking, point blank. Bill was jerked back a bit. She was going to hyperventilate – she could feel the oxygen leaving her lungs, and her chest started to heave. Gasping, she said, "Oh God, Bill, please, please don't do this…"

"Callie," Bill said gently, tenderly, "you said it yourself. You said he wasn't going to hurt you. He wants to protect you…he's the best chance you have against Rochester."

She blinked away tears, trying to maintain some of her dignity. "How do you know so much?" she asked.

"About Rochester?" Bill asked, then he shrugged. "They showed me the things he's done. I saw pictures." He shuddered, turning pale. "God, Callie…I would have made you see them, too, but there wasn't time. I'm sorry it had to be like this. But when it's over, you'll forgive me. At least I hope you will."

He really did sound regretful. It was hard to hold back the sobs and they came out as dry wheezing. She closed her eyes, and then felt him let go of her wrist.

"Go on, Callie," he cajoled.

She shook her head. "You don't know," she groaned. "You don't know what this man did to me."

"I know he took you hostage earlier tonight, and could have killed you," Bill said rationally. "He didn't. He should have killed you almost three weeks ago but he didn't. I know it doesn't make sense, but…you have to go."

Almost against her will, her legs started to move. She couldn't look at Bill anymore. The level of betrayal was enough to make her wretch. These horrible people…everyone around her was against her, and the people who loved her were far away, or dead…she choked on another sob.

Finally, she reached him. She kept a good distance, more than an arm's length, between them, but she couldn't look at him. She just stared down at his shoes. They were expensive, leather shoes. Foreign, from the design of them.

"Are you ready?" came Vincent's voice. It was exactly like she remembered. She, at his mercy.

Finally, she raised her eyes up to his. He was looking at her patiently, but it was edged with an urgency that she was familiar with. In the dark of the hallway and even greater dark of the closet, she hadn't gotten a good look at him. He seemed…different, somehow. More terrifying, and somehow less, at the same moment.

"Are you breathing?" Vincent asked, raising one eyebrow. "If you're stressed, you have to remember to –"

"Keep breathing," she finished for him. "I know." She shook her head, the despair finally reaching its ultimate, peaking in her throat and coming out in a high, whining voice. "Vincent…don't make me leave my brother, please. He needs me so much now, I mean, Dad is dead…you remember my dad, don't you?"

Vincent sighed, and something flickered across his face that she had never seen before. Was it…compassion? Was he capable of that? Or maybe it was something else, because he closed the distance between them, and very, very gently, took her hand in his.

"The best way to protect your brother," he said in an undertone that was nearly tender, although that familiar force was behind it, "is to get as far away from him as possible. You're a dangerous person to be around, Callie. And since I seem to be responsible for that…" and then he broke off, as if he had just forgotten what he was going to say. He looked confused, gave a brief shake of his head. "Come on," he said, tugging delicately at her fingers. "Come on."

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Jackson watched the exchange, not hearing the words, but understanding the body language. It was bizarre, for him, to stand and watched as the great and terrible Vincent was brought low before a little girl.

He was careful to make sure the sign above his taxi read "Not in Service," as he climbed back in and headed out. Traffic was always sticky around LAX, and it turned out that the 105 headed back into L.A. was out of commission from this end. The freeway entrance had a blockade over it, indicating it was closed.

Swearing softly, Jackson turned back into the airport traffic, which pushed him into even more congested traffic. He couldn't seem to merge far enough left to make his turn, and wound up in the main part of the airport. He had just paused in front of one of the many lights when suddenly the back door opened and someone slipped inside.

"Not for hire right now, buddy," Jackson said, resenting the temporary role of driver he'd been assigned. True, being a manager wasn't all glamour, but there were limits for any man—

"Spare me," came the familiar voice, tinged with that attitude that had become familiar over the last few days. "So did it work? Did she get on the plane?"

Jackson glanced at Rochester in the rearview mirror. He was watching him intensely, dark eyes large and round.

"Yeah, she's on it," Jackson said with a sigh. Usually, it was his business to know how everything operated, but there were times when he just had his own part to play, and moved on. Still, this job was making less and less sense as it went along.

"Good," Rochester said. "Now they're together. Isn't that sweet, though? Vincent thinks Peter is helping him. He's actually helping to corral him into the trap."

Jackson snorted. "You know, evil villain talk is pretty far beneath you," he remarked.

Rochester smiled and laughed. He had a very human sounding laugh, and his smile would have made any woman believe him to be a very handsome and even down-to-earth kind of man. But Jackson, too, had seen the scene after Rochester had done his favorite work, and knew better.

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter," Rochester sighed. "Talk is cheap. It's results that cost the big bucks." He leaned forward so that his face loomed over Jackson's shoulder. "And Vincent is really naïve enough to fall for this? He actually trusts Peter that much?"

Jackson shrugged one shoulder. "Everyone has a weakness."

"Seems that old Vinny has two," Rochester murmured thoughtfully. Then he broke into another smile, this one almost like a shark. "You know, I can't decide which part will be more fun – when I finally get to do her, or making him watch as I do it."

Jackson had pulled up at another light. He was going to turn and say something scathing to Rochester, but reconsidered. He may have been Peter's mouthpiece, but that didn't always completely shield him from the stupidity of annoyed assassins. Sure, Peter would get mad at Rochester if he killed him, but Jackson would still be dead. And he'd heard a few unpleasant rumors about Rochester wanting to go into business for himself.

"Thanks for the lift, errand boy," Rochester said, tossing a twenty into the front seat. Jackson looked at it with contempt and would have given a derisive reply, but his passenger was already gone.

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(The writer enters with suitcases packed)

Jackson: Where are you going?

Me: Away. On a trip. I won't be able to update for the next week. Not until Sunday night, anyway.

Vincent: Who's going to look after us while you're gone?

Me: I can hear the fangirls jumping up and down with their hands raised as we speak.

(_Vincent merely glowers as Rochester enters, looking extremely hot and muscle-ly in his wife-beater. He's carrying a pizza_.)

Me: _(under my breath_) Boo-ya.

Rochester: What, me or the pizza?

Me: You brought pizza?

(_Rochester motions for Jackson get up. Jackson does, looking peeved, but Rochester sits down beside the writer and flips open the pizza box_)

Rochester: Hope you like Mediterranean Style.

Me: My God, I thought I was the only human being on Earth who liked that.

Jackson: (_annoyed_) What did you bring that for, anyway?

Rochester: Well, I figured that since we're all stuck here, we may as well get some munchies.

Me: Good thinking.

Vincent: (_sulking_) Look, don't you have some Iron Head fics to be in?

Rochester: (_unfazed_) Nope. (_He and the writer start making googly-eyes at each other_) And it's Man. Iron Man.

Me: And are you _really_ an Iron Man?

Rochester: (_suggestively_) Wanna find out?

Vincent: All right, that's it! (_He charges toward Rochester_)

(_Casually, Rochester lifts his hand and the Iron Man beam flies from the palm of his hand. Vincent is blown back_.)

Me: (_outraged_) HEY!

Rochester: (_innocent_) What? He started it.

Me: That's my main guy! This is his fic! You're just tagalongs, the entourage! You can't do that! (_The writer runs off after Vincent, who is smoking slightly_.)

Rochester: Oh well. (_shrugs_) Guess all of you will just have to review if you want to complain about this week's entertainment.


	11. Black Holes and Revelations

Chapter Eleven: Black Holes and Revelations (from _Starlight_, by Muse)

If she hadn't been so utterly paralyzed by the night's events, Callie would have appreciated the luxury of the private jet. It was decorated in dark browns and reds, the seats wide and comfortable, set across from each other like in a living room. A round table made of rich cherry wood sat between them, and there was a couch stretched out across the opposing side, upholstered with velvet and cushioned with fluffy pillows, although everything was in dark masculine shades. The carpet was so thick she almost swore she felt her feet sink.

The lone flight attendant was of Asian descent, very pretty, with her dark hair cut neatly along her jaw line and her clothes all perfectly accenting her long shape. She was also very good at her job, and noticed nearly immediately that Callie wanted something.

"Would you like a cocktail, Miss?" the woman asked, her voice only containing the barest hint of an accent.

_Hell, yes, I want a whole bottle of the strongest stuff you have._ But instead what she heard herself saying, half-joking, "You wouldn't happen to be able to make an Apple Martini, would you?"

The woman nodded. "We have a full bar, Miss. Would you like a sugar rim?"

Callie nodded. Whatever she drank, her only real goal was not to not feel her legs when she was done.

"Here, before I forget," Vincent said as they settled down into the chairs, "this is yours. It's for when we get to Bangkok."

She mouthed the word "Bangkok." It was a sleek black leather case, like a checkbook, only wider. She realized it was a passport, with her face inside. It was made up under a false name – _Regina Chatwin._

"How…where did…where did this come from?"

Vincent gave her a quick, blank look, and didn't answer. "Fasten your seat belt," he said. "We're leaving soon."

The flight attendant returned with the martini Callie had requested, sitting on a serving tray. She set down delicate blue napkins on the small table beside Callie's seat to place the glass. Then she handed Vincent a newspaper, and quietly walked away.

Callie looked to Vincent, who she realized was watching her. She sipped at her drink, noticed that it tasted extremely good. With a mild jerk of her head, she asked, "Does she cost extra?"

"Who, Mariko?" Vincent asked, glancing over his shoulder at the flight attendant. He turned back to her with a rather indifferent smile. "I wouldn't know; she works for the man who owns this plane."

"Oh," she said softly. She had thought it was his. Why she'd thought that, she wasn't quite sure. "And here I was thinking the assassin business must pay pretty well."

He blinked. "Was that a joke?"

She shrugged. She was going out of her mind. The martini was gone before she knew it, and she put the empty glass down on the table. Before she knew it, there was another in its place. This Mariko woman moved like a ghost.

The plane started to taxi, and before she was even aware of it, they were in the air. She felt the mild pressure pushing her into the plush cushions, and glanced toward the couch. It looked very inviting. Hadn't she slept before? It was well into the middle of the night now, she should be sleeping now. It didn't seem to matter…the grief and the pain had taken everything out of her. She didn't know which end was up.

Vincent flipped through the newspaper. Callie wondered how long they would be stuck on this plane, as they were technically flying half the world away. They would doubtlessly need to make stops to refuel…hell, they could be on this plane for the better part of twenty-four hours!

She took a gulp of her refreshed drink and then set it down. Her eyelids drooped, and she rested her cheek on her shoulder for a moment. A blink turned into a sudden, half-dream like image, part of one of the reoccurring nightmares she'd been having for the last three weeks. The one where Vincent was chasing her out of the jazz club, and had pressed her up against the wall, and kissed her.

The sudden chemistry of that kiss startled her awake. She shook herself, and let out a deep, distressed sigh before she could hold it back.

"What's wrong?" Vincent asked, his eyes still on his newspaper.

Her eyes snapped to him. "What's _wrong?_" she echoed, her voice cracking a bit. That got his attention – he looked up at her, his gaze mildly dangerous. A warning. She chose to ignore it. "What's _wrong,_" she went on, "is that my father is dead, a demented psychopath wants to kill me, I'm on a plane to fucking _Bangkok_ -- although _God _knows why -- when I should be with my brother, but I'm stuck here with _you_!" The last words were spat out with scorn. "_That's_ what wrong!"

Vincent sighed, straining for patience. She had seen that look before. She was becoming unruly and he wanted to manage her. Her frustrated shifted into a blue-hot rage.

"I told you," he said, "you're here for your protection—"

She gripped her arm rests and was leaning forward a bit, staring at him with wild eyes. "But you haven't told me why!" she shot at him. "Why are you protecting me, Vincent? Why do you care whatever Rochester does to me?" Now her tone was high pitched, borderline hysterical. "Why, Vincent? _Tell me why!"_

Vincent gazed back at the woman across from him. Why did women always get like this? Why did they always need to talk everything to death? Why couldn't they just be accepting of the facts as they were presented? But no, they wanted feelings. They wanted intimacy. It had never, ever been to his taste. Sure, he respected women, but he wanted nothing more from them than the occasional satisfaction of a particular need.

"You're exhausted," he said, at the very limits of his tolerance. The itch to be violent with her, to subdue her, was getting uncontrollable. But she wouldn't be able to take it. He would end up hurting her, and that thought made him pause. He didn't like to think about _why_ he was pausing; but instinct, which he put a lot of stock into, told him not to resort to force. "You need rest. When was the last time you slept?"

Callie blinked. Numbly, she tried to think. She remembered lying down after throwing up outside the bar, but not sleeping…"Don't remember," she mumbled.

Vincent looked toward the couch. "You should lie down. We're going to be here for a while. Sleep will make you calmer."

"You mean it will shut me up," she said bitterly.

"That too," he agreed, only a touch sarcastic. Then, softening, he said, "Come on."

She started a bit when he stood up, but he extended his hand to her gently, and she found herself reluctantly taking it. Defying him took too much energy, and he hadn't physically harmed her so far. She took his hand and started to rise, but the alcohol, her stress and sheer exhaustion collided together to make her slip. Her weight tipped forward and Vincent had to readjust to catch her before she collapsed against him.

Her head was throbbing. It was just as well that Vincent wasn't telling her anything, she'd never be able to take it in now, not with the state she was in. She sighed again, willing the world to stop spinning. And then she realized how intimately he was holding her, and that he was staring down at her, an expression on his face that seemed familiar and alien at the same time.

She couldn't help it. The question came out again, but this time in a quiet plea. "Why are you doing this?"

Their eyes met. That lupine green that had been burned into her brain countless times shimmered back at her. He pulled her closer to him, and Callie didn't resist.

When had this happened to him? Vincent had replayed that night over in his mind, looking for his mistakes, but he hadn't once tried to consider when these feelings for this woman had started to develop. He remembered finding her reasonable attractive when he'd first approached the cab. He remembered not wanting to shoot her in the head after she first tried to run away from him, and not quite understanding why he hadn't done that. Then there was the jazz club, listening to the music, getting lost in the mood, dancing with her, feeling her close to him…

And kissing her outside in the street. That spark that had passed through them had rocked him. Was that the moment? The point of no return?

He raised his hand and brushed his fingers through her hair. She really was rather a mess –her face was swollen from tears and strained from tension. But as he stood there, so close to that face, to this person who had somehow managed to graft herself onto a part of his spirit, he felt a sweet kind of relief. He was with her now. It didn't matter what else happened, he was finally with her.

He was leaning down. Her face was getting closer. And then Callie blinked and realized that he was about to kiss her, and turned her head away.

It hurt, but it did not surprise. Vincent was used to hurt. He could have tossed her away, thrown her onto the couch…a dozen other things flashed wickedly through his mind, but he dismissed them. He wasn't that kind of man. Instead, he maneuvered her and then gave her a mild push down into the couch cushions. "Get some rest," he said, and returned to his seat.

She looked at him, shaken. Her body had stiffened and now she couldn't relax. "Is there…is there any way I could call Ray?" she ventured.

Vincent looked up at her, a bit startled. "Why?" he demanded.

"So that he knows where I am," she said, keeping her voice smooth. "He's got to be really, really worried about me, Vincent. I mean…our father was just…!"

Vincent looked away as her voice trailed off, his jaw tightening. He let out his breath and said, much to his own surprise, "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. Your father seemed like a good man. He didn't deserve…what happened."

She seemed a bit thrown by his sudden condolence, but took it in stride. "So you can understand why my brother is--"

"It's not a good idea," he said, his tone more conversational now. "Rochester probably knows you're not in L.A. any more, but he may not know where we're going. No sense in giving him a trail. On top of that, if Rochester thinks your brother knows where you've gone, it might tempt him to do the same thing to him that he did to your father. So you'd be endangering yourself _and_ him. Your doctor _friend_ as well." Something about the way he said _friend_…did he sound jealous?

She exhaled, defeated. It was too much, she should have known better. "Fine," she said in a small voice. She turned away from him and lay down on the cushions, then curled so that her back was to him and her limbs were pulled in protectively between her and the back of the couch. Before she knew it, she was asleep. If she did dream, she didn't remember it.

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Hours passed. Vincent tried to read the newspaper but his eyes kept going to Callie's back. Here she was, flesh and blood, and totally vulnerable. He had absolute power over her. She had to go where he led, do what he said…sure, she could kick and scream, but he'd win. He had won last time.

He rested his head back against the headrest and tried to shut his eyes. The deep sound of her breathing filled his ears, and when the noise outside the plane, the whine of the engines or the thrust of the air pressure, overpowered it, he felt himself straining to catch it again.

She was a talker. She probably didn't realize it, but words came out of her mouth, randomly, while she slept. She was probably in that deep sleep where you don't remember your dreams. Did she dream about him? He figured she did, but doubted they were pleasant.

He didn't want to be pleasant. Being pleasant left too much room to argue. If she started to think that he had feelings for her, she might try to manipulate him, and that simply wasn't acceptable. Couldn't she see that all of this was for her safety? Couldn't she just accept the help he was giving her, much to his own _extreme_ inconvenience?

But then again, she was dealing with a tremendous amount of stress on top of that. Most people got pretty upset when a parent was viciously murdered. He had noticed that over the years. It had never made too much sense to him, but he had encountered, like in Ray Sr., the kind of father that was capable of creating affection instead of animosity. That was why Vincent had liked the man. He didn't ignore his children.

Callie sighed and shifted in her sleep. "Watch," she said, her voice soft and perfectly clear. She could have been having a conversation. Vincent turned his eyes away again.

He could seduce her. The thought jumped into his brain and latched on. It wouldn't be that difficult. Her body wanted him, even if her brain didn't. He could seduce her and get her out of his system. It would be easier then, wouldn't it? Without the distraction of wanting her so damn badly?

Instinct, again, told him that wasn't going to work.

How long had he been sitting here? The sky outside was starting to lighten. He could catch faint glimmers of the ocean underneath them.

A rumbling noise distracted him, and he realized it was coming from her. Her stomach was making strange, gurgling noises. Loud, almost intense noises. Sure, she was tired, but her body was also hungry.

Mariko appeared, as if psychically commanded. "Would you care for something to eat?" she asked. "We have fresh eggs, and bacon."

"Some omelets sound good," Vincent said.

"Toast? Or perhaps you would prefer pancakes; I can make them from scratch."

"That would be fine," he said, his eyes back on Callie. He felt stiff from sitting in this chair what, eight hours now? She needed to wake up. She needed to eat, build up her strength.

He stood up, stretching his muscles. The cracks and the mild tweaks reminded him that he was getting older. He didn't need sleep like most other people did – military training had long since taught him how to go without. He would catch a few hours once they got to the boat. Then it might be safe enough to close his eyes for a bit.

He approached the couch and bent down. He grasped Callie's shoulder and gave her a gentle shake. She shifted, but did not wake.

She was really deep in it, he realized. "Callie," he said, bending low, over her ear. "Callie, wake up."

Her eyes popped open and she blinked, then they drooped shut again, overwhelmed by exhaustion. "Few…few min…nuts."

Vincent shook his head, biting back irritation. He stepped over to the small bar, where Mariko had made their drinks, and poured a glass of water. The flight attendant was busy making the pancake batter, and he could hear the sizzling of the pans and smell the sweetness of the oil. His own stomach gave a lurch and made a mewling sound. He was hungrier than he thought.

Going back over to the couch, he knelt down beside her. He had to shift her so that he could reach her face, but still it didn't rouse her. He dipped the tips of his fingers into the water and flicked a few drops on her face.

Her cheek twitched.

Vincent sighed. He wiped away the drops, and then realized how warm she was. Warmer than the kind of sleep warmth that made him suddenly want to bury his face in the crook of her neck and inhale her scent. He violently shook that thought away, and flicked more water onto her this time.

She flinched, her eyelids fluttering.

"That's it," he said, his voice a bit louder. "Come on, back to the waking world."

She rolled onto her back, putting her right smack in the middle of his arms. Her shoulder rested against his chest, and she looked up at him, as if not believing this, as if wondering if he was a dream.

"Yes, it's real," he said. "Don't you remember?"

She started to flounder, trying to get herself into a sitting position. Without being asked, Vincent slid his hand under her back and gave her a light push. She groaned, her face scrunching. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Head hurts," she hissed between her teeth.

"You're dehydrated," he told her. "Drink this." He handed her the water.

She took it and eyed it suspiciously.

Vincent snorted. "Yes, I drugged it. I woke you up from a dead sleep to drug you and knock you out again."

She narrowed her eyes at the scathing sarcasm, but took the water. Then, the smell of the pancakes on the griddle reached them both. Callie turned her head, her eyes looking eager in spite of herself.

"Breakfast will be ready in a few moments," Mariko told them, appearing silently and disappearing the same way. Vincent, whose calves were bunching up from being crouched beside her, hefted himself onto the couch. It was just a bit too close to Callie for her comfort. Her body language spoke louder than any words, and he heard it.

Vincent felt weary. "I don't suppose there's anything I can do to make you trust me, is there?" he said, and then was surprised those words had slipped out of his mouth. Everything he did was usually so calculated. Being improvisational was one thing. Being vulnerable was something else entirely.

She blinked in surprise. He almost expected her to answer, but instead she swallowed the rest of the water. She set the glass down, but when she straightened again, Vincent was even closer to her, his hand sliding along the back of the couch to rest on the back of her neck. His face loomed in her vision, the salt and pepper of his overgrown stubble, the shape of his lips, the curve of his cheeks.

"I read your book, you know," he said, his mouth very close to her face.

She frowned. "My book?" She didn't think of it yet as a book. It was a memoir of that night, and a research work in progress. Then she blinked, and realized that Laurie had mentioned that the manuscript had been shifted on his desk. "How?" she whispered.

He smirked. "Jackson sent it to my employer. He sent it to me."

She was blushing furiously. Then she willed it away. _He_ had terrorized _her_, not the other way around. _She_ had nothing to be ashamed of.

"You really think," he said, his voice low, that familiar murmur she remembered too well, "that all those times I kissed you, I was just trying to manipulate you?"

"Yes," she said, before she could think about the answer. She looked away, willing him to move back. She was at the edge of the couch. The only way to get away from him was to stand up, and even that guaranteed nothing. Besides, she still wasn't sure how steady she'd be on her feet, and to tumble into him again was unthinkable.

"Really? That one outside your father's house?" She flinched. It was too much, the pain was too raw, the loss of her father. But she did remember. She remembered how tender he was, and how confused she had been when she thought about it later, wondering what he had hoped to accomplish.

"Doesn't matter," she said in a cracked voice. "Doesn't matter what you meant by any of them. It doesn't change anything."

He let out a soft breath and it spread against her cheek. "You know, I'm sorry about before, when I called you a stupid bitch."

She narrowed her eyes in annoyance. Her lips flattened.

"But really, sometimes, Callie, you can be really, really dense. Why the hell do you even think you're on this plane, right now?" He had gone back into his working mode, she could tell by the way his voice changed. That reasonable tone, the way he seemed to be almost counseling her on the way she should feel. "You realize that you're safer here than anywhere else in this world? Or worse than that, it should be me trying to kill you and not Rochester. But no, I've gone through all this trouble to save your life, and do I get any thanks? No, all you can do is look at me with suspicion…and clam up."

"What do you want me to say?" she burst out, turning to him. "You want me to say thank you?"

"It would be a start," he returned.

"Fine. Thank you, Vincent. Thank you for everything. Thank you for getting into my cab three weeks ago and dragging me around the city to watch you murder a half dozen people. Thank you for making me a target for a major crime lord because he thinks I witnessed all those murders, and can testify against him. Thank you for being the reason that this creep Rochester even knows I exist. And thank you for dragging me away from my brother, who is the only family I have left! I don't know what I would have done without you!"

His eyes, which had clamped into hers as she spoke, had slowly grown brighter, the line of his mouth drawing tighter and tighter. She could feel the suppressed fury radiating off him like waves of heat, and she stood up, attempting to protect herself. He followed, like she knew he would, and he grabbed hold of her, yanking her close to him. He wasn't much taller than her, but his presence towered over her.

"So what do you want me to say, Callie? You want an apology? Oh, I'm sorry, all right. I'm sorry I ever got into your cab! Before that night, you were nothing – you were just another speck of dust. Have you even stopped to realize that the only reason you're alive now is because I couldn't kill you? Did you even think about why?" His voice had risen slowly as he railed at her, and he was losing control. He didn't know where half the words coming out of his mouth had come from, and he knew if something didn't stop him, he was going to blurt out something he could never, ever take back.

She stared up at him, partly in fear, but partly in curiosity. "So tell me, why then, Vincent," she dared him, even though her voice shook. "Why can't you kill me?"

He grabbed her by the back of her neck and brought her face up to his. He stopped, his mouth a few centimeters away from hers, and waited. When she didn't move, he said, "Don't tell me you don't already know."

She didn't know what came over her. The memories, the nightmares, washed over her, but there was something wrong with them. It hit her, all in a rush, the horrible power she had suddenly gained.

He hadn't killed her…because he _couldn't_.

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Jackson: Dun dun duuuuuuuunnnn!

Me: Shut up! I can't get Vincent to stop smoking.

(_Vincent sits in the chair, smoke still coming off his suit. Not to far away, Rochester, in disgrace, glowers on_)

Vincent: (_disjointed_) Mommy? That you?

Jackson: (_to Rochester_) Oh, you're really screwed now.

Rochester: Really? About time.

Me: (_furious_) Not that, you jerk! You almost cooked him!

Rochester: Well, he shouldn't have gotten up in my face!

Me: You don't get to use those things in _this_ fic. Hope you can hold your own without them.

Rochester: Oh, look at me, I'm shaking in my shoes.

Jackson: Wow, you're really getting into character.

Rochester: Well, not much else to do with my time, considering the entire last chapter was just Callie and foxy-boy there on the plane.

Me: Vincent, come on, snap out of it. This whole chapter was all about you! You and Callie, anyway…

Vincent: (_still dazed_) Me?

Me: Yeah, you, the reason I'm writing this fic.

Vincent: (_tipsy_) Really?

Jackson: Oh, God, you blasted him stupid.

Me: (_strokes Vincent's hair_) Of course, dummy!

Vincent: Aw. (_pulls the writer onto his lap_) You're sweet. (_puts his head on her shoulder_)

Me: Um…okay, you guys go review. Maybe he'll be sober by the time you come back.


	12. You're All I Have

Chapter Twelve: You're All I Have (from the song by Snow Patrol)

It was unbelievable. If she had been anyone else, she would be dead. But no, somehow that night everything had gotten turned around. She had been his prisoner, and somewhere along the line, he had become hers. The look in his eyes, which filled her vision, was so desperate, so lost…it shocked her. Could it be? Could it be that this man, twisted and broken as he was, had feelings for her? That perhaps he even thought he might love her?

She let out a breath that was almost a gasp, and then he couldn't take it anymore. He closed the rest of the distance, and she found herself closing her eyes and parting her lips. She had to know. She had to know the truth.

He kissed her.

It was gentle, but demanding. All the other times it had been passionate and forceful – he had been trying to get something out of her, get her to do something. The feelings had come almost as an afterthought, although they shook the whole foundation. Even outside her father's house, when he had been more thoughtful and subdued, there had been something dangerous lurking underneath.

There was danger now, certainly. And a terrible urgency. But he was tender with her, which shocked her even more, and allowed her to prolong the kiss. His mouth moved over hers, the stubble of his beard scratching her in delicious familiarity. His hand had moved so that his fingers were entwined in her hair, but not painfully – no, delicately, tangling himself up in her burnt auburn locks. The other hand was on her back, his fingers splayed along her spine, moving up and down, causing sparks of electricity.

Tentatively, she reached up and grasped his shoulders. She felt him tense, but when she didn't push, he relaxed, and she could feel the muscles in his arms. Then, she did something she had hitherto thought unthinkable – she reached up and stroked the back of his head, and was stunned to feel how soft his silver locks were, how pliable and smooth.

She heard something, and realized it was a moan in the back of his throat. The rush of sudden power over him went to her head, and made her dizzy. She shifted the kiss this time, her teeth grazing his lower lip. And then, almost out of control of herself, she flicked her tongue against his upper teeth.

His body seemed to surge in her arms. It convulsed and tightened around her, and then the spasm passed, and she almost smiled. It was true. Vincent had feelings for her. All this time she had been so upset over how he had affected her, she hadn't spared a single thought for how she might have affected him!

He gave a little growl and his mouth suddenly smothered hers. It felt so good…it was insane how good it felt! It shouldn't…she was going crazy, it was the grief, it had to be, it had dislodged her, was making her do unimaginable things. It was like playing tag with a wild lion – any second he could turn on you and eat you alive.

Sparks of reason flickered through her brain, and a voice demanded, louder and louder, that she stop this. But she was drowning in him…like playing in a riptide, letting it carry you away.

Finally, when he broke for air, she turned her head away. It took a full minute for her to get enough of her wits about her to put pressure on his arms and get him to release her. For a moment, it felt like he wasn't going to do it. One didn't crawl into the cage and then simply knock to be let out again. His body was rigid, almost vibrating against hers.

"Vincent, please," she said, keeping her voice breathy and sweet, "please, stop."

"Why?" He was equally breathy, but she heard that predatory tone in his voice.

"Because," was all she could manage for a few heartbeats. "Because this isn't right. I can't do this."

"You can't? You _are_."

She shook her head. Why couldn't she think straight? Dammit, she had gotten giddy and ignorant and didn't stop to remember that the reason Vincent had been so successful influencing her last time was because she had been so attracted to him, at least initially. She had forgotten the power he had over her, which was still very real and very toxic.

"Please," she said, her voice still soft, trying to be innocent. Maybe she could appeal to that man inside him that didn't want to hurt her. That part of him she had just noticed, that had feelings for her. "I'm not ready for this. Please, Vincent."

Reluctantly, so reluctantly, he eased his grip. He stared at her for several long minutes, and then they were interrupted by a soft cough.

"Breakfast is ready," Mariko said.

Vincent made a gesture toward Callie, as if she should go. She turned, going to the small dining area where two fresh omelets and a stack of pancakes awaited them. Her step was unsteady, but it took Vincent another five minutes before he could join her.

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This was, by far, the worst night in Dr. Laurence Gregg's life.

When they had discovered that both Callie and Bill were gone, Ray had assumed the worst. But what was the worst? If someone had killed Bill to get to Callie, wouldn't there have been a body? Or maybe both of them had been taken. And then there was the unfathomable – that Bill had taken Callie.

Laurie couldn't bring himself to believe it. Bill had been with the hospital over five years, and Laurie had known, when he was hired, the kind of past he had. He worked at the hospital not for money or glory, the both of which he'd already enjoyed. It certainly wasn't for glamour or excitement, of which there was none of the first and too much of the second. No, Bill had worked at this job because he was one of the rare few who saw it as a calling, a vocation, a need to do good in the world. After this job, he was going to promote him to the head of the orderly department, and he was almost sure that Bill wouldn't accept the promotion.

But Bill was gone, just like Callie. Laurie tried his house, and got nothing.

Ray had been livid. He was already at the edge, dealing with the violent death of his and Callie's father. This had cracked him down the middle. First he'd reacted violently, starting to throw things and generally wrecking Laurie's office. Laurie had called on some other orderlies to help restrain Ray, although Ray was not his patient and they couldn't exactly strap him to a bed, but they'd managed to hold him down long enough to sedate him, which had taken the wind from his sails.

In the ensuing hours, the police had gotten to work, but their results were not good. There was no way to know where Callie had been taken. If she had been executed, it would have been done quickly, and the body would be nearby, but there was no sign of her in the subsequent search.

Laurie knew. He'd read the things that Callie had written. Vincent was not a local. If he'd taken her, then he would have gotten her out of the country as quickly as possible. And worse, if that Rochester had gotten her, they wouldn't know for sure until the body dropped.

It was bleak. It was awful. He had never felt like such a failure and disappointment in his life. And worse, so much worse, he felt guilty for letting Callie down. He felt grieved over her loss, as if she had died. So he sat in his office and snuck shots from the bottle of whiskey he usually kept locked in the bottom drawer of his desk, which he rarely drank except when the day's stress threatened to snap him in half. He had gotten half-way through a bottle that was three quarter's full when the telephone rang.

Laurie looked at it. It was his private line. It was also well past three in the morning and the place was deserted, except for the few foot cops who had been left to watch over the scene. Ray was in the room where Callie had been staying, as it was the first available bunk that they had that wasn't in the ward – although Laurie had threatened to put him down there if he didn't at least try to get a hold of himself.

The phone kept ringing. Six, seven, eight. Finally, he reached out and picked it up.

"Dr. Gregg," he said.

"Hello, doctor," came a familiar voice. It sounded tired, but nonetheless the power was still there. "I take it you're having a bad night."

"Rippner," Laurie said. "Why do I get the feeling that none of this is coincidence?"

"Well, you are a doctor," came the snide voice. "One would hope that would mean you had some brains. But if it's any consolation to you, you're not the only one whose been having a bad night. And I'm here to make it all better."

"Oh, lovely," Laurie mocked, even through the slur of alcohol. "So _you're_ the doctor now. What do you want, my head on platter?"

"If I did, you'd give it," Jackson mocked. "You know perfectly well how much Calliope Fanning means to you, Dr. Gregg. So I'm sure that you'll be much more responsive to the offer I'm about to make."

Laurie sighed, weary. It was true. He would put his head on a platter to get her back. "Name it."

"My employers don't want you publishing that book," Jackson said, reiterating what he had already said before, both to him and to Callie in the restaurant. "They want you to cease and desist all research, any mention of Felix Reyes Torrena, or of anything that might legally pertain to him."

"So what do you want, my word? There's more to it than that."

"Indeed. Let's just say that we know what channels to watch. We'd ask you to turn over all your research, but who knows, you might be foolish enough to make back-up copies and neither of us could ever get a moment's rest over it. So we'll make it very simple. Anything gets out with her name on it, in any connection to that night in question, and it's a straight up execution."

"So I agree to this, and you return Callie to me?"

"I can arrange it," Jackson said, although there was something in his voice, something fidgety, that made Laurie doubt that he really could.

"Why bother?" He knew he was being risky, but he had to know. "Why return her? You obviously want her dead."

"Yes, but you don't," Jackson replied smartly. "Dead, there's nothing to prevent you from attempting to destroy our client. Alive, and it's a continuous threat we get to hold over your head. And hers, incidentally."

"So how do I even know she's still alive right now?" Laurie dared. "Let me talk to her."

"She's not in my present company," Jackson said simply.

"So how do I know that you can do what you say?"

"You don't," Jackson snapped. "But is that a risk you want to take?"

"It's more like your risk, Mr. Rippner," Laurie said, getting some steam. "Until I get proof that Callie is alive and safe, I'm not giving up anything. If you can guarantee me her safety, then I'll give you whatever you want."

There was a pregnant pause. "Fair enough. Give me your cellular phone and I'll see what I can arrange. But don't do anything foolish, Laurence. You'd hate to jeopardize her, wouldn't you?"

Laurie gritted his teeth. He gave the number, and then Jackson hung up.

Ray was not going to like this.

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Breakfast was delicious.

Callie tore through her omelet and pancakes, alternating one to the other, stuffing herself until she felt nearly delirious. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. And as she sat there, feeling her strength coming back to her after rest and a meal, she started to feel something like sane again.

The mere thought of her father was a knife-like pang in her heart, but what would he have said? He would have told her that she had to deal. He was gone, she had to accept it, because there were more important things – especially to him.

She knew, deep down, that her father had died because he'd refused to give her up. He'd died for her. She'd be damned before she would let that sacrifice go to waste. But worse than that, she was starting to feel the first glimmerings of wanting revenge. She pushed them aside – they were ridiculous. Not only was the task inestimably dangerous, but she had no way to even think about accomplishing it.

"You full?" Vincent asked her. She glanced at him across the table. He'd barely gotten half-way through his meal. She had scarfed it down like a hog at a pig's trough.

She noticed her empty place. She was about to say no, she really wasn't, but Mariko beat her to it. Another omelet, this one a bit smaller, and a few more pancakes glided gracefully onto her plate.

She sucked down another glass of orange juice. She had never really liked orange juice – too much acid for her taste. But this stuff was fantastic. Delicious and sweet, no pulp, just the right thickness. She could have drunk this stuff for the rest of her life and been happy.

Vincent went back to his meal. Callie noticed that he had let the pancake syrup get into his omelet. It sent a sharp jab through her ribs – Laurie did that.

Oh, God, Laurie…she wished she could call him. He was the only voice of sanity right now, as her brother was no doubt still consumed by the loss of their father and crazy with worry over her disappearance. Laurie would be worried, he would be upset, but he would be rational. She had always liked that best about him, how rational he could be, even when everyone else panicked.

What would he tell her? She was stuck in this situation and she had to make the best of it. So to go over the facts: 1) Vincent was not inclined to harm her. He wanted to protect her. Truthfully, after what she'd seen, she was pretty sure he could do it, too; 2) Vincent had feelings for her, but how could she know for sure what they were? Men were disposed of doing stupid things when it came to their lusts, but she doubted that Vincent was such a victim of his urges. So it had to be more than lust he felt, didn't it? Why couldn't he say it, though? Why couldn't he just come clean and tell her?

Laurie had emphasized that understanding your patient was critical – not feeling pity or sympathy, but being able to understand on an empathetic level where the other was coming from. Vincent was coming from an empty life – no mother, no father, foster homes, abuse, and God-knew what else. No ties of any kind, no romantic affiliations, never been married…she wondered if he'd ever been involved with a woman. Not just sex, but men who had abandonment issues generally tended to be unable to establish any kind of intimacy with a member of the opposite sex, or even their own. Being physical was not a problem – the mind didn't have to be connected to the body. In today's world, people were just things, commodities. He more than likely bypassed the traditional method of getting laid for the world's second oldest profession.

So, her doctor's mind told her, having intimacy issues, he would be unable to express to her what his feelings were. He probably didn't understand them himself. Which was why he was acting the way he was acting. If it was weird or out of character, though, she couldn't be sure. She only had one night with him against which to measure everything else. To her mind, though, it was out of character. The cool Vincent, who was in control and who got things done, no matter which way, seemed hesitant.

There was an old saying – he who hesitates is lost.

It had to be making him crazy. Which made him more dangerous. Her mind switched from the doctor track to the victim. He was holding her by force. She was still a prisoner, his prisoner. She could not come and go as she pleased. She was limited. So she had to guard herself carefully. Being at the mercy of a man who had feelings for you that he didn't understand could be an extremely ugly situation, indeed. He might start to resent her. His frustration could get the better of him and he could get some pretty whacked ideas about how to handle them.

She had to push him away. She couldn't let him get comfortable with the thought of having her around. She couldn't be too cooperative or too trusting. She couldn't lead him on in any way. So kissing him again was definitely out. She should never have done it before. Which now made pushing him away a big risk, she realized. Vincent had probably faced rejected multiple times in his life and always at critical junctures. It would lead to anti-social behaviors like he exhibited. If she rejected him, would her life become forfeit? If she gave a no-holds-barred I'm-not-interested attitude, what might that trigger in him?

She was screwed. Blued and tattooed. She couldn't lead him on, and couldn't reject him. So that left one very uncomfortable alley. She had to figure out what she did actually feel for him, and walk that line.

Vincent had handsome. Even his behavior had not detracted from the smoothness of voice, the Adonis-like qualities of his face, his pure animal magnetism. And the thought that _he_ had feelings for _her_…well, the thrill she'd experienced before at _that_ discovery was what had led her to her current dilemma.

Suddenly she realized he was looking at her across the table. "So you _are_ full?" he asked, puzzled. Callie jerked to realize she hadn't touched her second helping. Quickly she plied her fork into her food and shoveled it into her mouth.

Great, now she'd really gotten his attention. He watched her eat – that drove her nuts as it was – with the kind of curiosity that unnerved her. But she got through it, because yes, she was still damn hungry. When she finished cleaning her second plate, she gulped another pint of orange juice and leaned back with a half-sigh of contentment.

She closed her eyes, suddenly sleepy again. Then she felt Vincent's hand close on hers, which had been resting on the table. They weren't that far apart, as the table was small in the enclosed space. Startled, she pulled her hand back and her eyes opened. She pulled herself up straight, admonishing herself for doing exactly what she wasn't supposed to do.

Vincent looked down at where her hand had been, and then at his empty one. His brow wrinkled, and she felt a stab of panic. So much for walking the line – her first time out on the rope and she'd already toppled, without knowing if there was a net below. Then he withdrew his hand and his expression was tight.

"We should be landing in about four hours," he said. "When we do, we'll be boarding a boat and crossing the gulf."

"The gulf?" she echoed, confused. "What gulf?"

"The Gulf of Thailand," he said, as if it were obvious, and he was not amused. "It'll be an overnight ride. When we land in Bangkok it will be night for them."

"Then why did we eat breakfast?" she muttered, having gone stupid in her uncertainty.

"Because, Callie," Vincent sighed, "I was being considerate of you. You're still on continental North American time. Don't worry though, you'll adjust. And if you don't, well—" He shrugged.

"Fine," she said, standing up, irritated at his sudden attitude. Nevermind she was the reason he had it. "Where's the lavatory?" she asked.

Vincent eyed her suspiciously for a moment, which she didn't hold in any specific regard, as Vincent looked suspiciously at everything. Then, when he didn't say anything, she added, "You have parachutes on this plane?"

"Why?"

"Figured I'd try to escape," she quipped, smirking down at him. "Either that or just go to the bathroom. You decide."

"Lavatory is down that hall," Vincent said, pointing over his shoulder. Then, for good measure, he added, "And parachutes are locked in a cabinet on that side." He pointed the other way.

Callie nodded. "Well, that settles it. Lavatory it is." And she went.

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_(Vincent comes into the room, in a new suit, looking slightly miffed. He sees only Jackson and Rochester, munching the pizza and watching television_.)

Vincent: Where's the writer?

Jackson: (_around the pizza_) Working.

Vincent: About damn time. On what?

Rochester: Well, sometimes she's working. And the rest of the time she's reading Red Eye fanfiction.

Vincent: Excuse me?

Jackson: (_smirks_) You heard him.

Vincent: Why in the hell would she do that?

Jackson: Don't know. Maybe she's going to give me my own fic after she's done with yours.

Me: Don't start.

Rochester: Did you finish?

Me: Can't. I'm blocked.

Vincent: Well that's what happens when you read Red Eye fanfiction.

Me: Who told you that?

(_Everyone eyeballs Jackson_)

Jackson: It wasn't me! It was Ironhead over there.

Rochester: That joke is getting old. You need to be smoked too?

Jackson: (_ignoring Rochester_) And when are you going to give me my own fic?

Me: You have over 500! All the good ideas are taken. And I'm not big on you and Lisa.

Jackson: Well, she is hot.

Me: Yes, she is. (_Everyone looks strangely at the writer_) Hey, I'm straight, not blind.

Vincent: Wait a minute. You said you're blocked?

Me: I'm on chapter seventeen. It's an incredibly hard chapter. The hardest I've ever written.

Jackson, Vincent, Rochester: How hard is it?

Me: Not funny.

Vincent: Wait a minute…you're not putting me through some kind of existential hell, are you?

Me: I'm not an existentialist. But yes to the hell part.

Vincent: Wonderful.

Me: All right, guys, I need inspiration. (_they all stare at her, dumb_) (_furious)_ **I said I need inspiration!**

(_Everyone scatters_)

Me: Go review. Give me some inspiration.


	13. Just A Ride

Chapter Thirteen: Just A Ride (from the song by Jem – no, not Jem and the Holograms)

On her beside table, the telephone rang. "Dr. Martinez," she answered.

"Lupe?" The voice was familiar, but terribly strained. She squinted, trying to recognize it. "I hope you remember me, Ray Fanning, we had dinner earlier?"

She broke into a smile. "Of course, Ray. Are you all right? You sound…stressed."

He gave a bitter laugh. "Look, I know we just met, and this is asking a lot, but is there any way you could come to your office? Some things have happened and you probably need to know about them. Plus…I just need a friendly face."

She was already getting out of bed, pulling on her jeans. It was her day off, but she didn't care. "I'm on my way," she said.

When she got there, and Ray started recounting to her the events of the night, she was stunned. It was amazing how much could happen in a short period of time – all of this between when they'd finished their dinner and very early this morning?

He looked awful. His hair was bent in twenty different directions, and he had a mildly slurred speech pattern that indicated he was coming off a high dose of medication. Dr. Gregg had yet to make an appearance, but they were using his office at the moment.

"So what are the authorities doing?" she asked, using Laurie's personal coffee maker to brew up a pot of extra strong java.

"What they can," Ray said wearily. He was on the couch, hadn't moved from there since he'd plopped down after greeting her with a rather frantic hug. He was rubbing his forehead a lot, which she guessed was a nervous gesture. Also his lips. Both were mildly red from the abuse. "Filed a missing persons report, are searching all the most likely places…although they don't really have a clue. They said that they're going to question Felix Reyes Torrena because they have reason to suspect his involvement, but they don't expect it to go anywhere. And I've been pretty much walled out of the whole thing – they won't let me do anything because I'm her brother. Which frustrates the hell out of me."

"So there isn't anything else?" Lupe asked, pained.

Ray rubbed his forehead again. At this rate, he was going to take the skin off. "No," he said, with an uncharacteristic air of defeat.

Lupe recognized this. Ray was still in shock. The murder of his father and the disappearance of his sister were overloading his ability to be rational. He was sliding into despair. She'd seen it before. She'd treated victims of violent crimes on various occasions, and not all of them had to have something directly happen to them in order to qualify for that title. Ray was in a very bad place. He needed help.

"All right," Lupe said, leaning back in her chair. She liked Ray, a lot. She was surprised at how much she had grown to like him in just one evening, and she was never one to turn her back on someone in need. She had to do something to help him. She reached over and pulled a blank notepad from the edge of Laurie's desk – he always kept one handy, it was the habit of most doctors.

"What are you doing?" Ray asked, one eyebrow arching in puzzlement.

"We have to take stock of everything, Ray," she said. "Right now, you're all on your emotional side. You have no reasonable one, and that's valid. You're allowed to not be reasonable at this time, considering all the things that have happened to you." Validation of the patient's emotions was always first on the list. "So I'll be your reasonable side. We're going to work through this."

Ray scowled. "What the hell good will that do?" he asked. "Will that bring Callie back?"

"And you sitting there, stewing in despair, that's going to be more effective?" she asked gently.

He considered this. It seemed to connect to something in his brain. "Fair enough," he said.

"Ray, you have to accept at this moment, you are helpless," she said, keeping her tone smooth, professional. "You have no leads, no trail. Your sister is more than likely still alive and she will be recovered, given time."

"You can't know that," Ray said, shaking his head. There was a dull glint in his eyes.

"Fine," Lupe said. "You're right, I can't. So we have to face the possibility that she's gone, too. But we'll get to that later. Right now, you can't give up hope. So we have to work with what we have. All right?"

After a long moment's consideration, Ray gave a slight, if defeated, nod. So Lupe got to work.

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She took a lot longer in the lavatory than he would have expected, but when it came to women, Vincent was only familiar with peripheral habits. Like going to the bathroom in pairs, and always spending too much money on shoes, those sorts of irrelevant things. When she came back, after what was probably close to a half hour, she looked a bit more put together. Her hair had been smoothed down with some water, her face had been washed, and he suspected she had asked Mariko for a toothbrush. Her clothes were still wrinkled from sleeping in them, but how badly could a pair of jeans and a T-shirt get damaged, anyway? Still, she had somehow smoothed out a few of the heavier lines, and when she took her seat across from him, she seemed to be more herself.

Vincent had noticed at breakfast that she had been famished, but also heavily distracted. The need to think and the need to eat seemed to be running neck and neck with her. While he had no idea what was running through her head, he knew she wasn't happy with it from the continuous vertical lines between her eyebrows.

When she sat down, her body language seemed tense. She was sitting with her shoulders forward, her fingers twined together and hands pressed between her knees. He knew she wanted to say something, but the words weren't coming together.

Once again, this was one of the things about women he could do without. This incessant need to talk about things, rehash them over and over. Then again, she confused him like no other human being on earth. She had kissed him before, even advanced the passion of the kiss, and then had shoved back, like she'd forgotten herself. He knew that physically, she wanted him, but that her mind resisted. Women were so conflicted; he couldn't imagine continuously having to deal with a split between his head and his heart.

Still, he couldn't help himself, which bugged him even more. Trying to take her hand before had been a bad idea. The sting of the rejection was something he pushed aside. He was used to ignoring his pain. As difficult as that was becoming lately, he was determined to keep at it.

Finally, she cleared her throat. "Vincent," she said. The sound of her name on his lips was odd. Usually it was a plea, or an expression of fear, or anger. But this was simple, and he liked it. "I, uh…I wanted to tell you. I know that you've gone through a lot of trouble for me. And while I'm not completely sure why, you seem to want to protect me, and for that, I'm grateful. If I wasn't here with you, I'd probably already be like…my dad." She strained against the shudder in her voice. She couldn't break, yet. "So I want you to know, I'm thankful."

"You are." He didn't really buy it – or maybe he didn't _want_ to buy it. She seemed sincere, but also placating. "Why am I hearing a 'but' coming?"

She shook her head. "No, it's not like that. I just…this is all extremely hard for me and I know I'm acting crazy, but you should just know that that isn't going to change. Right now I'm being rational, but that's how grief is. Grief makes you do things you wouldn't normally do. So…" she trailed off, and he could tell that this was the hard part, the part she'd been really unsure about. "I just wanted to make it clear that…that I'm not… comfortable with…I just, uh…" She looked away. He felt a smile tugging at his lips. It was almost fun, watching her squirm. Whatever she thought was so important, he couldn't imagine. But he didn't have the heart to tell her she was wasting her time. Instead, he just sat back and accepted the free entertainment.

"Okay," she said, getting a hold of herself. "I wanted to ask you. I don't think I'm being unreasonable about this. I just don't want you to…I'm worried about being taken advantage of."

Now he frowned. He saw the "oh shit" flicker in her eyes.

"I mean, before, when we…kissed. I know I kissed you back, and that was wrong. I know it's a lot to ask, but could we…could we please keep the physical stuff out of this? I mean, unless you expect me to…to, uh…in return for…" She was flicking her hand, a nervous gesture.

Finally, he'd had enough. "You're worried that in return for my saving your life, I'll expect sexual favors," he said plainly.

She flushed to the roots of her pretty auburn hair. "Yeah."

His face split into a wide, toothy smile, showing all his canines, and he laughed.

"Look, I'm sorry!" she said, her voice a bit louder, to be heard over him. "I know that you're not that…you're not that kind of guy—"

"Oh, that's big of you," he said, still smiling.

"I just wanted to get it out in the open," she said, spreading her hands wide, palms down. Her voice was taking an edge to it, now. "I just want you to know that I'd appreciate a little…a little distance."

"Distance," he echoed, the smile mellowing.

"Yes," she said, looking fearful and hopeful. "Do you…do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"You're saying, thank you for helping me, just please don't touch me," he translated plainly.

She nodded, her eyes hesitant.

"Fine," he said, pulling out the half-finished newspaper.

"You sure?" she said, even as his attention clearly diverted from her. "I mean…I don't want to offend you."

"You haven't," he said, raising his eyes to meet hers, dead on.

"Okay, then," she said, leaning back in the chair. Slowly, so slowly, she looked like she was beginning to relax. He looked back at his newspaper, and after a few minutes, he heard her give a low, relieved sigh.

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Callie had never been out of the country once in her life. She wasn't sure what she expected when they landed in Bangkok. She had heard the old song from the 80's by the Pep Boys – at least, she thought it was the Pep Boys – about how dangerous it was, etc. But if Vincent lived here, or close to here, then it must have had something that afforded protection.

The airport wasn't that much smaller than LAX, but much less hectic. They exited the plane outdoors, and Callie was immediately struck by the humidity in the air. The stars, though--they were so bright, so brilliant. Being raised in L.A., she was used to the green sheen of the night sky, sometimes mixed with orange, and few stars. Here, it was like a black velvet blanket littered with diamonds.

Vincent, very carefully, took her by her upper arm and guided her. He seemed to have taken her words to heart. It had not been easy to say those things to him – the risk of humiliation had been alarmingly high, but still, it needed to be done. Worse, the risk of angering him had not appealed, but he'd taken it well. Too well, in her opinion, but she wasn't going to spend all her time second guessing everything. Vincent had proven relatively trustworthy so far, so she had to roll with it.

That was what he'd tell her, anyway.

There was a car waiting for them, a simple, nondiscriminatory black car with diplomatic plates. Vincent seemed to give a little groan when he saw it, but they climbed in back anyway.

Outside, the windows were heavily shaded, but she could see from the inside perfectly well. She couldn't stop staring out the windows, the front, the back, hers, the driver's side, Vincent's side, every way she could turn. It was exotic and strangely familiar. A tourist attraction, but like none she'd ever seen before. The city sparkled with its own unique charm, and she felt the inexplicable desire to have the driver stop somewhere, let her get out, and explore.

She had to remind herself, severely, that she was not on vacation. Denial was a step of the grieving process, she counseled herself. Nothing to be alarmed about, but nothing to run with, either.

They turned away from the lights of the city and passed through more obscure roads that were lined with almost jungle-like foliage. She swore she saw a few wild animals in the headlights of the car. Up ahead, she realized they were approaching a dock – she could tell by the tall sticks that stuck up into the night, the mainsails of various boats. The body of water behind them shone as black as the night sky.

The driver spoke. It was in a language she didn't understand. Callie's eyes went to Vincent, awaiting his reaction.

He replied, briefly, in the same language. The car made a right turn onto another road.

She sighed, muffling it, keeping it soft in the back of her throat, pressing her head against her hand. She wanted to ask and didn't dare. Vincent had told her before that they were going to be getting on a boat. He'd said they'd be on it for a while, traveling to…where again? She didn't have time to fret over whether she should ask – the car pulled up to a particular dock and stopped.

Vincent got out of the car and started to walk up the plank to a large boat that looked more like a yacht, or at least as close to a yacht as she'd ever seen. Callie hesitated for a moment, and then followed. The driver was moving toward the trunk, where Vincent had put his bag. She had no bag – she was here, in another country half-way across the world, with only the clothes on her back.

Callie looked at the boat. She hesitated, not sure what she should do, but looking back, into the wildness behind her, she knew she didn't want to stay. So with a deep breath, she walked up the plank and onto the boat. Just as she reached the top, she heard Vincent make a noise that was clearly surprise, but not alarm.

Vincent was talking to a man that he seemed familiar with. They were smiling, shaking hands, talking softly. The man, upon inspection, seemed nice enough, although she was hardly in a position to judge such things. He was a bit taller than Vincent, not much, with shaggy brown hair and large blue-green eyes that smiled easily. He seemed young, at least younger than Vincent, and had an innocent air about him that was throwing her off. She frowned a bit as she approached, and the man's eyes drifted to her, his eyebrow lifting. It gave him a rather dashing appearance.

"I see you brought your friend," the man said, and she was surprised to hear a British accent, although it was hardly the proper kind that one heard in movies.

"This is Peter," Vincent said softly, hardly looking at her as he gave the introduction. "The jet and the boat are both his."

Peter gave her a rather cocky grin, as if he was showing off and he knew it. "Welcome aboard the Jade Arrow, Miss," he said. He extended his hand, which she shook. He had rather soft hands, she noted, softer than the average man.

Then, Peter turned back to Vincent. "I brought someone who very much wanted to see you," he said, his voice taking on a mild strain that signaled to her something major was about to happen.

Vincent's eyes guarded but not dark. "Who?"

"Hello, Vincent," came a voice from the seating area behind them, and a woman appeared, her skin and hair dark like the natives, her eyes like almonds and her figure as lithe and slim as they came. She wore a black dress that was simple, but accentuated everything about her that was seductive and slinky. Her small breasts were pert and settled nicely in the strapless top, and one slit in the skirt revealed almost her entire thigh, right to her buttocks. Her hair was styled perfectly, jet black and straight against her jaw.

She smiled at Vincent. Then her eyes drifted to Callie.

Having undergone unprepared travel and not having bathed, Callie felt about as presentable as a wad of used Kleenex. She almost blushed, but bit it back, especially when she saw Vincent smile, slowly, wolfishly.

"Cathy," he said, setting down his bag and walking over to her. He took her hand, and kissed it. His eyes locked onto hers and saw nothing else. "Whatever are you doing here?"

"Peter was visiting a friend of mine," Cathy purred, her voice heavily accented, but her words easy to understand. "You know how Peter gets when he drinks. He saw me and told me he was coming here to get you. I invited myself along." She pouted, just fetchingly enough to soften the hardest man. "I hope I have not intruded?"

"Absolutely not," Callie heard a voice say, and then realized it was her own, so hard and cold she didn't recognize it. Her eyes flashed to Vincent, who darted her a quick, appraising glance, and then proceeded to completely ignore her again, going back to Cathy.

"Wonderful," Cathy said, giving her a charming smile. "Vincent, would you like to see your room?"

"Love to," Vincent said, his voice that low, soft purr Callie knew she'd heard a dozen times before. To hear it directed at another woman shot a flame of jealousy through her that scared her with its intensity. Turning herself in nearly military fashion, she looked up at her host, who had the courtesy to look bashful.

"Perhaps I may also be shown to a room…Peter?"

Peter took her arm like a gentleman, and led her away, and Callie made herself not look at Vincent and Cathy again.

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Vincent: (_outraged_) You're _still_ reading that Red Eye fanfiction?

Me: (_sheepish_) Yes. Blame Angrw and NicolinaN. It's their fault.

Jackson: (_sing song_) Sure it is.

Vincent: You shut up! You've caused enough trouble! Why are you even still here?

Jackson: Hey, don't bitch at me because you can't control your Writer. And I'm here because I'm going to show up again. (_to the writer_) Right?

Me: (_even more sheepish_) Yeah.

Vincent: Where is Rochester? Maybe I can get him to blast you with one of this wrist thingies.

Me: He's off doing Tropic Thunder. Although he's still got work to do as well. You know, truth be told, nobody knows it, but I've already written and posted a Lisa/Jackson fic.

Vincent and Jackson: You have?

Me: Yep. You know all that Dukes of Hazzard stuff I've been writing?

Vincent: (_annoyed_) Yes.

Me: Well, Lisa and Jackson are in it.

Jackson: We are? Where?

Me: Right in the first one. You're reoccurring characters. Lisa plays Shelly, Henri-Mae's best friend. And you play her husband Lloyd. You two run the boarding house in Hazzard. Yeah, I based those two characters on you. Kinda sick, huh?

Jackson: (_under his breath, aroused_) Sick hot, yeah.

Vincent: Great, so now everybody is going to go running to that fic and…

Me: No, don't worry. My Dukes fiction was of more interest to me than anyone. I have an entire story from the Bad Reputation series that I haven't posted, and I've been working on a sixth one that's had more stops and starts than this one. So don't feel too bad, Vincent. You're not the only one on whose shit list I reside.

Vincent: I never said you were on my shit list…

Jackson: So let me get this straight. In your Dukes of Hazzard fanfic, the Bad Reputation series, you have Lisa playing Shelly, Henri-Mae's best friend.

Me: Yes, that's what I said. What, you can't re-read?

Jackson: And I'm her husband Lloyd? Where the hell did you get the name Lloyd? Do I look like a Lloyd?

Me: No, but it just sort of…stuck. I think I was using her more than you at first. I even named Henri-Mae after Lisa, did you know that?

Jackson: Uh—

Me: The main character is Henrietta Mae Locke. Henrietta, after Lisa's middle name. So really, deep down, I'm a closet Red Eye junkie.

Vincent: Um, hello! You were writing chapter 18, remember? You got through the big emotional climax and now you're working through the action climax? Want to get back to work?

Jackson: Why Henrietta?

Me: I thought it was a cool name. Henry for short, but that was too masculine, so I added the Mae. Henri-Mae. Yep, after Lisa.

Vincent: Hey! Come on, remember me? You wrote this fic about me, remember?

Jackson: He's so needy. Am I that needy?

Me: After reading NicolinaN's recent Red Eye fic, yes. You are. Very much so.

Jackson: (_grumbles_)

Vincent: (_whines_)

Me: Okay guys, go review! I'm sure I'll get some interesting responses this week! (wink)


	14. Indifference

Chapter Fourteen: Indifference (from the song by Pearl Jam)

"I can't help but notice that you don't have any luggage with you," Peter said as he unlocked the door to her suite.

Callie just shook her head, distracted.

"Well, being a bit of a ladies man myself, I do prepare for such occasions. You'll find some clothes in the closet and fresh personal items in the drawers. Feel free to make use of whatever you like. Everything is new – never been used, so you don't have to…worry."

She arched an eyebrow at him, but nodded her thanks. When she entered the suite, the first thing she did was look in the closet, wondering if there was something suitable for her to change into. She wanted to burn the clothes she wore. The best thing she did find that was closest to her size was a comfortable lounging suit made of thin cashmere. It was very expensive and felt absolutely wonderful. She went into her personal bathroom to change, and found everything she could ever need – hairbrush, cleansers, deodorant, toothbrush and paste, and even a small box containing various hair accessories.

When she came out, she was surprised to find that Peter was still there. He had been on the telephone, apparently, and was close to the window that overlooked the ocean, so she couldn't overhear his conversation. He said goodbye to whoever he was talking to and turned back to her graciously.

"You have to be starving," Peter said to her as he observed her sit down on the bed. "I didn't exactly have the menu on the jet at its top notch."

"The jet is yours?" Callie asked, rubbing her hand across her eyes. Why was she so tired all of a sudden? She had slept way to long to be this tired. But then again, sleeping too much had the same affects as not enough sleep.

Peter just gave her a modest smile. "Please, come. I'm unable to have anything but the best around me wherever I go, and I'm also an incurable showoff." He motioned out the door, and not knowing what else to do, Callie followed.

The galley was like the most expensive kitchen she had ever seen. There was a chef there, preparing coffee and sandwiches, but such sandwiches as even her father couldn't rival. The breads varied, all different types and shapes, perfectly cut pieces of lettuce and onion and tomato, Dijon mustard and meat of such quality that it practically melted on her tongue.

Considering she'd eaten breakfast about five hours ago, she didn't think she'd be so hungry, until she sat down at the small table with Peter and was presented a plate by the single server, a man with a boyish face who didn't meet their eyes. Once she started eating, she didn't stop until she realized she was going to explode.

Peter munched across from her, talking idly about things she had no idea. Talking about the chef and where he'd come from, talking about the boat, talking about his things. It was pleasant enough of a distraction from the continuous nagging voice in the back of her head, reminding her that Vincent had disappeared with that woman and hadn't re-emerged.

As if on cue, Cathy appeared in the doorway. She was dressed in a black silk robe that hung open and exposed the swell of one breast, an alluring look. She smiled at Peter, hardly acknowledged Callie's existence, and went right for a plate.

"You don't mind, dear, if I take some back to our suite, do you?" she asked Peter as she piled the sandwiches on.

"There's chilled champagne, too, if you wish," Peter said, seemingly oblivious to Callie's sudden discomfort. An olive was half-way to her mouth, forgotten, as she stared at the two of them, brooding.

Again, on cue, the server appeared, holding a silver bucket with the chilled champagne inside. "Shall I bring it to your room, ma'am?"

"No thanks, I shall do it." Cathy took the bucket in one arm and the plate in the other, and with a devious wink, she slinked back down the hall.

Callie watched her go. It was only when Peter cleared his throat that she drew her eyes back to him. She was amazed to see the man playing the innocent, looking at her with a gentile expression, as if the previous five minutes hadn't occurred.

"I'm sure as you know, Vincent isn't much of a conversationalist," he said. "At least, not when it comes to explaining what the hell is going on."

Callie arched an eyebrow. "How do you know him?"

"Oh, Vincent?" Peter looked mildly abashed. "Well, I'm not the proudest of my past, or his, but we were in foster care together."

This time Callie frowned. "Foster care?"

"In the same home, for a bit. It was a big place, neither one of us was much interested in the reigning social class, and we found that being together kept us safer than being alone." There was a grim look that flashed across his innocent features. "It was a very long time ago, I was fifteen, Vincent was seventeen."

Her frowned deepened. "You seem _much_ younger than that."

His smile was a thousand watts. "My thanks, love. I do try to stay in good shape—"

"Don't let him pull _that _wool over your eyes," came Vincent's voice from the hallway as he entered the galley. Callie noted that he'd showered, and was now wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms, long silk things that did little to conceal his muscles underneath. A white towel hung around his neck and his chest was bare, and his hair had turned a few shades darker when it was wet. Callie couldn't help but note the amount of scars he had on his torso…"He's younger than me by a few years," Vincent went on, going to the fridge and pulling out two large bottles of water. "But he's a true believer in plastic surgery." Vincent shot the other man a look over his shoulder. "One of these days your skin is going to crack like old cement."

"If money can't buy happiness," Peter said, tossing back his head, "at least you can be unhappy in nicer surroundings. And look better in the process. Plastic surgery is making leaps and bounds in medical science. The skin hardly shines anymore." He touched the side of his face as if to demonstrate.

Callie frowned. "You'd never know it to look at you."

Peter shot Vincent a triumphant smile. Vincent came to the table, popped open a bottle of water, and just shook his head.

"I thought you and Cathy were eating in your room," Callie murmured.

"We are," Vincent said smoothly. "But she didn't have a third arm to carry the water. Got to keep hydrated." He winked at her, and she blushed and looked away, her food now forgotten, her stomach becoming an angry knot.

"Your friend was just asking me about our past, Vincent," Peter said.

"Our past?" Vincent replied with a cocked eyebrow. "Oh, you mean me keeping you from getting killed every night until your sixteenth birthday." Vincent turned to Callie, oblivious to her anger. "Peter is a true child prodigy, you know."

"Really?" In spite of herself, she was interested.

"Really. And completely without shame. Mastered the legal system and emancipated himself from the state when he was sixteen, same time as I got out. We went our separate ways for a while, but…business has a way of bringing old friends back together."

Callie swung shocked eyes to Peter. "So…does Vincent…work for you?" she asked tentatively.

Peter's eyes became guarded for a moment, but then the man gave a shrug. "I never dirty my hands with the details," he said dismissively. "I'm in business with so many people, sometimes I can't keep track."

Repulsed, Callie curled back into her chair, crossing her arms over abdomen.

"Yeah, like of how many times I've saved your life," Vincent muttered. "About a half-dozen times, I think is the current count."

"And thus, your free use of my various resources," Peter said.

"I really didn't expect to see you down here," Vincent said, stretching his back. Callie looked away before she could notice the ripple in his muscles.

"Well, you know how little I'm able to resist the charms of Bangkok," Peter returned with a smirk.

Vincent chuckled dryly. Turning to Callie, he said, "Peter is hopelessly attracted to any woman of Asian descent. And he's not particular, either. Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese, Korean—"

"Although Thailand has the most beautiful variety, and the easiest systems of getting them," Peter jumped in.

"See what I mean?" Vincent said, picking up the other bottle of water and turning back to the hallway. "No shame."

"You going to sleep?" Peter asked.

Vincent shot him another wolfish grin, which Callie couldn't help but think was for her benefit. "Depends. At any rate, knock on my door when we reach Songkhla, okay?"

Peter nodded, touching two fingers to his forehead. Then he turned back to Callie. "And what of you? You know Vincent from—"

Callie just stared at him. "He works for you, and you don't know?"

Peter gave a little shrug, a bit more expressive than Vincent's little twitches. "Vincent doesn't like to tell me anything. I'd like to think he's protective of me, but I know better."

"So what_ do_ you do, Peter," Callie said after a pause, wanting to put some kind of conversation in the silence of the kitchen, "that you can afford your own jet, a yacht in the middle of the Gulf of Thailand, and your own personal hit man?"

"Stocks," Peter replied smartly.

"I thought you were in the legal field."

"No, no, that was simply a means to an end. I'm a bit of a wiz on the Stock Market. Speaking of which, I do have to make a few phone calls. Do you know your way back to your room?"

The thought of spending her time with Peter didn't exactly appeal to her, knowing what she knew now, but the thought of being alone was even less appealing. She bit her tongue, though, before she could say anything aloud. Damn her if she was going to show these people any throat. "Yes," she said miserably.

"Good. We'll be going for possibly another eight hours or so, it's at least five hundred miles across the gulf, it not a bit more. You might want to get some rest, take a shower, even wander around the deck. Make yourself at home." With a flash of white teeth, he was gone.

Callie sighed. She felt like a prisoner. Which was the strangest thing, because she was being treated with the kind of indifference that no captor would dare. Not that there was any way for her to get off this boat, and even if there was, where the hell was she going to go?

She got up, nodded her thanks to the server who took her plate away, and went to the fridge. There was another bottle of champagne there…upon closer inspection, she discovered that it was quite expensive. She pulled it out and got a glass from the rack overhead, then headed to the deck.

It was a beautiful night. She'd never seen so many stars. She made herself comfortable in a lounge chair, and popped open the champagne. The cork sailed over the edge and disappeared into the black sea below. Foam spilled over her hand and dribbled down to the floor, a silver snake of suds. She shook it off and poured herself a glass.

It was delicious.

She sat there, staring up at the stars, for a good while. She could see the arm of the Milky Way, stretching out over the heavens, a thick streak of cosmic dust and nebulae…

_That's us…lost in space_.

Vincent's words. It felt so long since that night, she hadn't realized how long until now. How could three weeks suddenly feel so long? Because their relationship had been altered, her doctor's mind told her. Change can create a feeling of distance from the past.

_But _what_ relationship?_ She frowned at the voice of reason, but then embraced it, letting the cold light of order fill her mind. It cooled the heat of her passions and let herself think more clearly. She was tired of rehashing things. She was tired of pondering the mystery that was Vincent. She missed her father. She would have given anything to be with him at this moment. Her throat closed and another wave of grief washed over her.

She drank more champagne. She thought about Laurie, and his rough voice and his even rougher chin, his grizzled hair, his sense of humor. She ached to hear him right now, longed for some of his wisdom, his ability to throw cold water on any intense situation.

She thought about her brother, and even through the haze of memories from her last visit with Mr. Bourbon she could remember his smile at Lupe, her doctor. There had been a spark there, and it made her happy. But all of that was being threatened by her situation. She hoped that Ray reached out to Lupe. He needed someone so badly, and she wasn't there.

_That's not your fault_, her conscience told her.

And then, carefully, as if handling a porcupine, she thought about her father. She thought about how, no matter what pain or agony he had suffered, he was with her mother now. He had been so devastated when she died – yet it had not driven him from his children, but instead made him hold them closer and more tenderly. And her father had always been a good Catholic. Good Catholics thrived on suffering, at least the ones playing for real. For as long as she could remember, whenever something had gone wrong, or pained her, no matter how big or small, he had encouraged her to "offer it up." He would have offered it up. He would have suffered proudly. He would have gritted his teeth and taken it. Her father was one of the toughest son-of-a-bitches she knew.

That made her smile. Her first real smile since she could remember. It made her cheeks ache with the unfamiliarity of it.

Soon the bottle was gone and she felt warm and fuzzy. She found herself remembering how her face had hurt when Vincent struck her so he could kill Annie. But he hadn't _killed_ Annie. Why hadn't he? He'd gone through the motions, surely there was no way Annie could have lived if he hadn't wanted her to. Or maybe she was giving Vincent too much credit. Everyone made mistakes.

He'd made a major mistake by not killing her. He even admitted the mistake he made by ever getting into her cab to being with.

She shook her head, realizing that the wind was picking up and she was cold, her fingers were freezing and her toes were numb. She left the empty bottle and used glass behind, got up and pulled herself down to her room, where she stumbled in the dark because she couldn't remember where the light switch was.

She bumped into the bed and plopped down. Her face pressed against the satin of the comforter on the bed, and she remembered something else.

She remembered the kiss.

She turned her head to the side, then slowly pulled herself up on her arms and rested on her elbow. Vincent's face as he looked down into hers, the sound of his growl as he responded to her touch. Why was she tormenting herself like this? It was impossible…it would never, ever work. She could never get over what he was, and he certainly didn't seem capable of providing her with anything that she would need from him. Like stability, support...sanity.

Her mind drifted to Laurie. He could give her all those things.

A thumping broke into her thoughts. Startled, Callie became stone sober for a moment, but soon the haze slipped back over her. This was a boat, surely there were all kinds of noises—

Voices. A female voice, giggling. A man's voice, gruff…Vincent's voice.

Bloody hell, they were in the room next to her.

The thumping came again. Something was going on right against the wall between their rooms, and like a slow-motion eight-car pile-up, she couldn't look away from it. There wasn't anything to see, but her imagination was more than willing to fill in the pieces.

More strange noises, they were right against that wall, and pressure was being applied, she could hear the creaking. Then she heard Cathy's voice, and it wasn't giggling now, it was moaning, loud and long and hard. In a rhythmic pattern, following other physical noises that were muffled, wet thuds against that stupid thin wall.

Sobriety kicked in, her buzz now completely gone. _They were fucking right against the wall of her cabin._

Callie stood up, pulling the blanket with her. She made it up to the deck before she threw up all of the champagne over the side of the ship. She was crying when she was done, and barely managed to wrap herself up in the bulky comforter before she collapsed back into her lounge chair.

_What the hell was wrong with her?_ It wasn't like she was _jealous_, was she? But the thought of Vincent sleeping with that _whore_ was just nauseating. And infuriating. Rationality tried to tell her she was repulsed at the fact that Vincent had probably been fucking this woman for a long time, and about whatever nasty, exotic diseases he could have picked up…

Forcing herself to calm down, Callie sat back in the chair and looked up at the stars. She breathed in the cold sea air, and wished she could wrap herself up in that comforter like a cocoon and never come out. Or at least, when she did, she'd be changed. Different. Someone other than who she was.

Someone was shaking her.

In a blink, the sky had changed from black to a pale gray-pink. She pushed the comforter out of her face; it had slipped over it in the middle of the night. She must have fallen asleep and not known it. It couldn't have been a deep sleep; she didn't feel rested at all. In fact, she felt more tired than ever.

She blinked in the light and tried to focus on the person who had woken her. When her vision cleared and she saw Vincent standing over her, she scowled and pulled the blanket back. He was the _last_ person she wanted to see.

"We're going to be arriving in about an hour," he said, his voice that same low monotone.

She did not answer. If he was out here, then they weren't fucking in the room next to her anymore. How long had she been asleep? When had she fallen asleep? She didn't remember…

"You might want to freshen up," Vincent went on, his tone just a bit more cajoling.

She scowled into the blanket. She wanted to start swearing at him but didn't dare risk him thinking she was jealous.

"What are you doing out here, anyway?" he asked.

She stood up, pulling the blanket around her. Giving him her best stone-face, she turned and went down the stairs, back to her cabin. There just wasn't anything she could have said at that moment that wouldn't have completely given her away, anyway.

She missed Vincent's expression as she went. Perhaps if she'd seen it, she would have been slightly mollified.

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Vincent watched her go. He didn't like it when she wouldn't talk to him. He didn't like it when _anybody_ wouldn't talk to him, but especially her. When a person stopped talking, that was when a person became dangerous.

He turned and looked out over the sea. It was always cooler, out here on the water. He was wearing a high-necked black sweater which he didn't really like, but knew he would need so he packed it anyway. He sipped his coffee and felt himself start to warm up.

Of course, he'd had every single intention of pissing Callie off. It should have gratified him to see her like this, as it had been what he was aiming for. Sure, she pretended that she wanted nothing to do with him, but he remembered how she'd kissed him. _She_ had kissed _him_. No one could fake passion like that.

Still…the look on her face as she stood up. She was a mess, her hair needed washing, and her face was red. She had been crying? He wasn't quite sure.

The coldness in her eyes, though. That bothered him. Before her irritation had been amusing, encouraging. Now it was murderous.

That was simply the only word for it.

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Breakfast was eggs, potatoes and French toast. The table was spread with fine silverware, and Peter was already at the head, pouring himself some coffee. Cathy was the first to join him, dressed but still looking mildly disheveled, followed by Vincent, who seemed preoccupied, although Peter paid it no mind because in his experience Vincent's natural state was preoccupation.

Callie came in last, dressed in the most comfortable clothes she could find, a pair of designer sweats and a hoodie. Her hair was neatly pulled back into a pony-tail, having been freshly dried from a shower.

She did not make eye contact with anyone except Peter, who wished her a good morning, to which her only reply was a tight smile and a nod. She sat down across from Vincent, but did not look at him once. She began to pull food onto her plate, mostly French toast, along with some of the fruit from the various bowls that garnished the setting. She ate in silence, seemingly oblivious to the sudden tension in the room.

Peter was, by nature, a host. Being a man of money and importance had also determined that he be one who possessed social graces, as Callie had already seen from the previous night, as he had chatted aimlessly while she ate. He commented about the weather, about how they were sure to dock within the hour, about what was going on in Songkhla that day, what he had seen on the news, international affairs and whatnot.

Cathy listened politely, but seemed determined not to catch Vincent's eye. Vincent, on the other hand, stared at Callie and would not look away until she looked back.

She didn't.

One she dropped her fork onto her empty plate, she stood up, taking her cup of coffee with her. She mouthed a "thank-you" to Peter and promptly left the room.

Vincent watched her go, and for the first time Peter seemed to notice his perturbed expression.

"Well," he said, keeping his voice low, conversational, "I'd say the two of you have had quite an evening."

Cathy's hand automatically went to her neck, which Vincent noticed out of the corner of his eye that she was touching marks he'd left there. Upon second thought, he wondered if leaving them there had been a good idea.

"I can't thank you enough, Peter," Cathy beamed. She slid her hand to Vincent, who let her take his without comment. "I have to admit that last night was certainly…something."

Vincent gave her a flickering smile, but his eyes kept going to where Callie disappeared.

Peter sighed deeply and leaned back in his seat. He seemed to instantly forget that Cathy was in the room. "You really aren't that thick, are you, old friend?"

Vincent's ears pricked at the use of the words "old friend," something Peter only said whenever he really wanted Vincent's undivided attention. "What do you mean?"

Peter snorted. "Your rooms were right beside each other. You knew that perfectly well. What were you thinking?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." The finality with which he said it, and not at all with the sort of innocent evasiveness that might have come from a more average person, should have been a clear enough sign for Peter to shut his mouth. But Peter did not shut his mouth lightly, and so continued.

"I have to admit, she's not what I expected. Sure, she's reasonably attractive, but for all the fuss I would have expected a supermodel as opposed to a fresh faced young girl. Then again, beauty is only skin deep. And the amount of trouble you've gone through, not to mention that _I've_ gone through, has been considerable. You're doing a very piss-poor job of convincing me that it's been worth it. If she's important, Vincent, I'd say you've sufficiently fucked it up."

With that, Vincent stood up, threw down his napkin, and left the room.

Cathy just stared at him from across the table, her cheeks a mild shade of pink. "What were you two talking about?" she asked.

Peter finished his coffee and stood. "I'll be with the captain. I suggest you take your leisure where you may, Cathy. I don't think you'll be seeing much of Vincent after we dock."

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"What are you doing?"

Callie had filled the sink with suds and water. She was dipping her jeans and T-shirt into it, and wringing them out, an old-fashioned way of doing laundry. She did not speak nor look at him.

"So now you're not talking to me," Vincent said. "Can I ask why? I did what you wanted, I left you alone, gave you space. I've given you _more_ than space."

She acted as if he wasn't there.

"Callie, I'm talking to you." He stepped closer to her, and caught her wrist in his hand. She stopped, took a breath, and then turned her eyes on him.

He wished she hadn't.

The complete indifference, the passivity, felt like she was looking right through him. Vincent knew perfectly well why she was angry, and knew she possibly had every right to be, but at the same time, she had made it perfectly clear that…

The words were coming out of his mouth before he could stop them. "You didn't want me," he said. "So why are you angry at me for finding someone who does?"

Coolly, she arched an eyebrow, as if to silently say, "Your point?"

After a few moments of this, he let go. "Fine," he muttered. "Fine." And he turned and left.

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Vincent: You cheated!

Me: In what way did I cheat?

Vincent: All of this chapter was just the stuff you kept from the last version of this story! The To Live Or To Die one! It's just cut and pasted!

Me: And carefully edited, in my defense! I didn't cheat, this came from my favorite stuff from the last story. I adored the whole boat scene and wanted to make sure it stayed in. My favorite part was Callie wallowing in self-pity on the deck. And getting drunk on Don Perginon.

Jackson: You can't spell. I know that's not how that champagne is spelled.

Me: Oh stuff it. Anyway, I also love that it's Vincent that finds her on the deck. That was just pure…oh, well, I don't want to toot my own horn too much. I just wanted to make sure to reuse this stuff. And I did carefully edit it, and made sure it make sense. Not the easiest thing to do but much easier than writing it all from scratch.

Vincent: (_grumbles_)

Jackson: (_whines_)

Me: What are you whining about??

Jackson: I wasn't in this chapter. Am I going to be in another chapter soon? (_pouts_)

Me: Oh great. Now I have to hear it from you. Hey, everybody, go review so I can post another chapter and maybe put Jackson it in!

Jackson: (_claps hands_) Yay!


	15. Stockholm Syndrome

Chapter Fifteen: Stockholm Syndrome (from the song by Muse)

When Callie exited the yacht, the only thing she had in hand was a plastic bag containing the wet jeans and T-shirt she had attempted to wash earlier. It had been foolish, what she tried to do, but she had desperately needed some kind of distraction, and it had been the only thing that occurred to her. She figured that, wherever they were going, there would be a bathroom, and she'd just hang them up when they reached it.

Peter told her to keep the clothes she wore and not worry about it. He even encouraged her to take anything else she wanted, but she didn't. She especially didn't want that cashmere lounging outfit – she'd never be able to wear cashmere again without thinking of…

_Dammit_, she thought.

Vincent was pissed at her. He didn't scowl at her or treat her rudely, but it was apparent that he had shut her out. Only as they got off the yacht and into the waiting car did she realize that this had also been unwise. She needed Vincent. As much as she didn't want to admit it, he was the only familiar thing in this crazy world, at the moment.

She considered, briefly, asking Peter to help her. But she doubted that he would. She had never imagined Vincent having friends of any kind, but it seemed that if he had ever had a single friend in the world, it was Peter. There was a brotherly way between them, twisted but noticeable, and she didn't think she had a chance of cracking it.

Vincent shook Peter's hand, his only farewell, before heading for the second of two black, unmarked vehicles. Callie followed, not having been directed to do so but also not having anything else to do. Vincent tossed his bag into the back seat, but didn't get in – instead, he turned around and headed back toward Cathy, who had emerged, looking mildly confused, from the boarding ramp.

Callie, who had gotten into the back and stayed silent, watched through hooded eyes. It seemed that Vincent was taking his farewell. It was rather obvious, from the remarks made by both him and Peter the night before, that Cathy was paid entertainment, but she didn't want to assume. Still, it was satisfying to see the disappointment on the woman's face when Vincent turned away from her and headed back to the car, alone.

Callie contemplated this turn of events. She had managed to irk Vincent, but how justified was she? Her rational doctor's mind attempted to analyze the events – she had frustrated him, sexually. Kissing him like that on the plane and then telling him not to touch her anymore? He'd taken it too well, and why not? Vincent had no ability to communicate his frustrations in any other way. As violence was how he handled stress, sex was the obvious release for thwarted emotions. Of course he was going to sleep with Cathy. Cathy demanded nothing from him emotionally. She was safe.

She tried not to stare at Vincent as they drove away from the landing dock. She had been drunk the night before, and illogical. Now, she was feeling rather forgiving, which felt equally ridiculous. But there was no alcohol to blame this time.

Still, her natural instincts told her she had made the right call. Being close to Vincent blocked her ability to think straight. At least, in a romantic way. _Oh hell, in all ways_, it was the truth, and if she was going to survive this, she had to deal with the truth. Vincent had to keep his hands to himself. Otherwise, something bad was going to happen. Very bad.

She wasn't as mesmerized by the drive this time, but still, it was quite scenic and interesting. It provided her eyes with some distraction, even if the wheels in her head refused to stop turning. When they finally reached their destination, she was a bit relieved to see that the hotel, exceedingly luxurious and clearly designed for American tourists, was a touch of home.

Inside, it felt like she was back in familiar territory. Although much, much more posh than she would ever had been able to indulge in, it was at least recognizable in this unfamiliar setting. There was a beautiful bar set in the middle, with plenty of plush chairs around and heavy wooden tables. The bar itself was sunk a bit into the floor, a few steps down, so that it was sectioned off without anything as cumbersome as walls to divide it. Around them were various hotel shops, many of them for clothing, clearly designer and extremely expensive.

"All our shops," said the woman at the desk, in perfect English, to Vincent as he checked them in, "are attached to the hotel, so any purchases you wish to make can be charged to the room."

Vincent nodded, uninterested. Callie, unable to help herself, wondered what she might be able to get away with, if she could get away from Vincent for just a few minutes. After all, with a bag of soggy clothes was not the way a woman wanted to enjoy her stay at a place like this.

When he turned away, both keys in hand, he didn't even tell her to follow, and Callie was starting to get annoyed. She felt like a lost dog, following around a memorable stranger. But still, the elevator doors opened long enough for her to get inside behind him, and they rode up to their floor in silence.

It was room 13457. A combination of good luck and bad, she noted. Thirteen and seven…but she didn't think of herself as a superstitious person, and let it go. It was only when she was in the room, saw how it was much smaller than she would have guessed… and that there was only one of them…that her mouth opened before she could stop herself.

"We're sharing?"

Finally, he turned his eyes to her. Green flint. He smirked, his jaw hard. "Yes," he said, his tone almost mocking. "We're sharing."

She shook her head. This was too much. She had asked him and he had complied! But how in the world could they share a room like this and not wind up falling all over each other? Her mouth opened again, but she couldn't figure out what to say that didn't sound completely wrong.

"Relax," he said, reading her mind. He tossed his bag into a chair. "I'll keep to what I said before. But this is safer. If we had two rooms, I'd have too much space to guard. This way, you can see trouble coming. And I can keep you close." He turned away.

The room had one bed. A king size, which meant it was easily accessible for five people to sleep in, but still. Thick, embossed comforters and a pile of pillows…she had the urge to sink herself in them. She felt exhausted, like she hadn't gotten a single drop of rest from being in that stupid deck chair all night. But she couldn't even sit on the damn thing. Instead, she went to one of the chairs beside the small two-person table and sat down in it. It was very comfortable…it had one of those extended seats so her legs could stretch out. She could almost sleep in it. She considered it.

Because there were some things she was not going to share with Vincent. One of them was a bed.

Her stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. If she took a moment to appreciate this situation from Vincent's perspective, she was seeing that he was going through a lot of trouble for a woman he didn't have any reason to protect outside from some personal feeling he couldn't even quite identify. What was his payoff from this? Sooner or later, he might see it was net zero. She was really walking on thin ice.

But still, her other half argued, she hadn't asked him for any of this. She didn't want to be here. Whatever twisted reasons Vincent had, she couldn't take responsibility for any of them because she had no say in them at all.

"You look tired," Vincent said, coming out of the bathroom. "You want to get some sleep?"

She looked down at the bag of soggy clothes. She couldn't go to sleep, not yet, she had to hang them up. As much as she didn't want them, they were the only things she had.

Vincent followed her eyes and picked up the bag. "You can go downstairs later and get yourself something from one of the shops," he said, in a tone that was dangerously close to generous. "I'm tossing this out. They have a spa, or a salon or something like that, too. We might want to consider changing your hair color." He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. "Can't say I like that idea much, but it may help."

She frowned, grasping her dark auburn locks. "Why?" she asked.

He looked at her like she was an idiot. "To make it a bit harder for Rochester to find you when you're not with me," he said.

"You're pretty sure he'll find us? We're in Thailand."

"He'll find us," Vincent said plainly. "It's just a matter of time."

"So what's the plan then?" she asked, grateful for a reason to talk. "Do we just wait for him? I mean, you have a plan, don't you, Vincent?"

He had turned and walked away from her, pacing the length of the room. He had folded his arms, and she had a sudden fear that he _didn't_ have a plan, that he was playing all of this as a giant improvisation exercise. Wasn't that Vincent? _Darwin, I-Ching, roll with it_.

She opened her mouth to press him, unsure exactly how, but then he started to speak, in a quiet tone.

"The only way to do it is to kill him," he said, as if more to himself than to her. "And the only way to do that is to lure him into a position where he thinks he's won." His back was to her, all she could see were the muscles of his neck as he stretched them lightly, a nervous habit he did when he was thinking. "Which means we have to bait him." Then he turned and looked at her.

"You want me to play bait?" she said, disbelieving.

"We should still change your hair color. Don't want to make it too obvious."

She frowned. "So what do you know about this Rochester guy? Other than the terrible things he does to his victims?"

Vincent shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing. There isn't anything to know. No family, no ties, like me. No personal attachments. Nothing to exploit." Then he frowned, a worried frown, as he looked at her.

"Until now," she said, unable to help herself. "Until me."

His eyes…how strange they turned. That unfocused look she had seen a few times during that night, as if he were gazing inside himself and was horrified at what he saw, but didn't dare show it.

"It's a double play," he said, even softer. "Rochester wants to take me out, too. Probably either Peter has let him think that's what he wants, or else he's got a separate contract with Felix. Either way, doesn't matter. So he's waiting to do you until after he kills me. That way, he feels he can take his time. With me alive, there's too much of a risk of being interrupted. Some guys might think of that as part of the thrill, but he doesn't. He doesn't like to be hurried."

Callie shuddered. Yet another reminder of the hell that awaited her if this didn't work. Still…"You have a lot of faith in Peter. You really trust him?"

Vincent blinked, as if just seeing her. "Yes," he said, bluntly.

"And how do you know…that you can?" It seemed very, very odd that Vincent, of all people, would have blind faith in anyone, no matter how special that person might be. More than odd, it seemed an outright aberration.

"Because I do." Candid. No room for argument.

She couldn't let it go. "But…I mean…doesn't it seem…risky? I mean, how can you afford to do what you do and trust…_anyone_?"

He gave her a little smile. "You won't understand it, Callie. Don't try."

"Oh, what, is it a guy thing?" she said, a bit derisively.

"No," he said. "It just is."

No luck. He wasn't cracking. _Switch tactics_. "So Rochester, he doesn't trust anyone? And he won't kill me until he's killed you? You're sure?"

"It's too much of a risk for me to be alive," Vincent said. "I'm the bigger threat, so logic says you take out the bigger threat and then the smaller ones are much easier."

"So you mean, that's how you'd do it." Funny, how he knew how people would react to situations, and yet he had no emotional tie to how they felt. He had no empathy, no ability to connect to anyone, and yet he could still predict their actions spot-on. "So until you're dead, I'm safe?"

He shrugged his shoulder again. "No, you're not safe. He may wait to kill you, but he'll use you to get to me. It's a classic tactic. So we have to establish a few rules.

"You have to stay inside the hotel, unless I tell you otherwise. I'm sure this is going to chafe your ass, having to do everything I tell you, from what I read of your memoir, but it's necessary. I need to know where you're going at all times. If I can't watch you, I'll get someone from hotel security to do it."

She frowned. "They'll do that?"

"If you have enough money, they'll do a lot worse," Vincent said casually. "Anyway, you also need to stay in public places at all times, where there are a lot of people. A lull in the crowd will give him the chance to approach you. People around will discourage him."

"Why? He seems to like an audience." She thought of meeting him in the bar. God, what if she'd joined him? What would have happened? She didn't continue the thought.

"True, but having too many people around risks drawing too much attention to yourself. He may be a showboat but he's not stupid. Trust me, Callie."

She bit back a snort. _Trust me_. But what choice did she have? Then the words slid from her mouth before she could think about them. "I'm tired. This is all making me tired."

"Then sleep," he said, heading towards the bathroom. "Go on, take the bed." He gave her a look over his shoulder, a look that made her insides give a strange little roll. "I'll keep my word. You're safe."

She frowned in his wake, where he'd disappeared into the bathroom. The thing must be huge, she pondered, but right now, it was the hugeness of the bed that beckoned her. She felt herself standing up, kicking off her shoes, shaking off the hoodie so that she was only in the tank top underneath it, and yanked off the heavy comforter. She settled herself into the nest of pillows and was asleep before she knew it.

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Ray woke up.

He hadn't even been aware of the fact that he was asleep. He remembered talking to Lupe… man, he'd talked himself hoarse.

"How is he?" he heard the familiar, gruff voice of Dr. Gregg, Laurie, saying. They were just outside his room. He was in one of the temporary lodgings for the overnight doctors, like a dormitory. Had this been Callie's room? He hesitated to ask.

Lupe answered. Her voice was sweet and husky, like raw honey. "He's…better. He's calmer. This news isn't going to help that."

Ray sat up, clearing his throat loudly. "What news?" he called through the partially opened door. "Hey out there, what news?"

Lupe reached in and pushed the door the rest of the way open. She was in her doctor's clothes – dressy slacks, sleek shirt, and of course the traditional white lab coat. Around her neck hung her identification, and her hair was pulled back in a dark bun. Her glasses perched on top of her head, but he was sure, when she put them on, it completed her professional look. An attractive woman was a neon sign in a mental institution, and she had to play it down. Somehow, it just seemed that much more alluring to him.

Laurie followed. He looked like hell. Ray was used to Dr. Gregg looking rough around the edges, but this was above and beyond. His eyes were bloodshot and there were dark bags underneath them. It was obvious that he was running on empty but had no intention of refueling.

"There haven't been any leads on Callie," Lupe said gently, sitting down in the small chair beside his bed as he pulled himself upright, swinging his legs over the side. "The police are talking about the trail going cold."

"And if she's left the country, there's nothing they can do. It's being turned over to the FBI," Laurie chimed in, his voice sounding even worse than his face looked. "Which is very comforting, considering their workload."

"So," Ray said, trying to process this, "so what do we do?"

The two doctors just exchanged looks.

Ray snorted. "Fine." He stood up, his head feeling a little woozy from the drugs, but otherwise, feeling much more like himself. "What about Bill? Anything on him?"

"We can't get him on any of his phones," Lupe said. "We're pretty sure he's left town."

Ray shook his head. "Of course he's not answering his phones…what's he going to say? 'Oh, yeah, Callie? Yeah, I helped her get kidnapped. Sorry, gotta run, more bad deeds to do today.' What about family – Dr. Gregg, you have Bill's work file, don't you? Next of kin, anything?"

"Already been turned over to the police as our first suspect," Laurie replied. "If they've found him they haven't told us."

"They'll tell me," Ray said, reaching for his coat. He'd slept in his clothes, but he didn't care. "Anything else either of you has to say before I go?" he added, turning to them.

"One more thing," Laurie said, clearing his throat. "There was a guy named Rippner. He was trying to get Callie to drop the book she and I were working on. He tried to get to me, too…" He paused, hesitating.

"And?" Ray pressed, knowing there was more.

"He called before," Laurie pressed on. "After Callie disappeared. Implied he knew where she was. Said we'd get her back safe as long as I buried the book."

"Which line did he call?" Ray asked, straining for calm. _Doctors_…so smart, with all that school, and not a brain between them.

"My personal line," Laurie said, frowning. "What does…"

"I'm going to get the call traced. What time did it come in? It's important that we know so we can pinpoint the origin of the call. Come on, Laurie, you want to find Callie too, I know you do." He snapped his fingers as he turned and headed out the door.

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Bill sat in the molded plastic chair. They were holding him for questioning, and hadn't formally charged him with anything, but he knew it was coming.

After leaving Callie at the airport, he had refused to ride back with Rippner. He couldn't be around that man for more than two minutes alone, for fear of wanting to strangle him. He had walked from the private gates to the main hangar of the airport and hailed himself a cab. It had taken a couple of hours. A few more to get home, considering traffic.

He was surprised to find that there weren't cops waiting for him at his house. And the thick brown envelope containing the pictures was still sitting on his kitchen table. Nothing had been touched. It felt like a stranger's house, now.

What had he done?

He sat down at his kitchen table, feeling the wash of guilt becoming painful, sharp. He reached for the pictures. The pictures were the reason he had done it. Rippner had convinced him that Callie was in more danger from Rochester than from Vincent. Going with Vincent was her only option of safety. Rochester had gotten to her right underneath their noses, and could go back at any time, no matter what they did. He already had proof of that, from the commotion at the hospital. But with Vincent…with Vincent she was safe.

That thought really bugged him. He had seen how terrified she was of Vincent. He had heard her scream, watched her run. He had been helpless to save her then, too. He was out of his league.

He picked up the pack of pictures and pulled them out of the envelope. This was what awaited Callie, if Rochester got her. And it was more than visual graphics, it was medical reports of the victims. That was worse, the cold, clinical descriptions of despicable acts.

This was why he had done it. To save her from this. As gruesome as the images were, they helped soothed his conscience. So many great, heroic acts in this world went completely misunderstood. He could live with that. As long as Callie was safe, he could live with it.

But he knew they were coming for him. And he was no criminal. So he had gone straight to them.

They put him in this room about five hours ago. They hadn't fed him much more than a few candy bars from the vending machines, and given him a couple of cans of Mountain Dew to keep him awake. They didn't put him in the holding cell because he was being so well behaved. He had turned himself in, after all. And they were waiting for the brother, Callie's brother, to have his crack at him.

Except Callie's brother wasn't there.

Bill didn't mind. It was better being here than anywhere else. At least here, he knew he was in the right place. And they had left the pictures with him, so that he could comfort himself, every now and again, that he had done the right thing by Callie, even if she hadn't liked it.

Sometime, early in the morning, there was a commotion outside, and suddenly the door to his room burst open. It was Ray, and he looked furious.

Bill knew what was coming. He took it calmly, expecting worse. He anticipated Ray punching him, at the very least. But instead, the man lunged at him and grabbed him by his shoulders, hauling him up. Bill took it. He knew Ray had every right, and just went limp.

"You son of a bitch!" the cop roared into his face. Bill winced a bit under the bad breath – he smelled like he'd just woken up. Morning breath fumes. "We trusted you! What the hell did you do!"

Bill's back slammed the wall, pushing some wind from him. But he didn't resist. He waited until a few other cops came in and pulled Ray off of him, and then slid to the floor. He wanted to tell them to stop, to let Ray have at, he deserved it. But he kept silent.

There was a lot of yelling, and talk of throwing Ray out of the room, but he prevailed. He went to the other end of the table, glaring down at Bill, sitting on the floor so that only his head was in sight. "Get up!" Ray snapped at him. "Get on your fucking feet!"

Bill turned his eyes to him and slowly got to his feet. He took the chair he had been knocked from and set it upright, then sat down. He met Ray's eyes, unashamed.

"They told me," Ray said, his voice lower but no less intense, "that you took her to the airport. That you put her on a private jet. Where was the jet going? Who was on it?"

"I don't know where it was going for sure," Bill said calmly. "I think someone said Bangkok, but I'm not sure."

"Bangkok," one of the other cops murmured behind Ray. "Fucking Thailand?"

"And who was on it?" Ray asked again.

Bill knew Ray was going to explode when he heard the answer. He had to play this carefully. No sense in getting Ray exiled from his holding room; that would defeat the entire purpose of this humiliation. He wanted Ray to understand, like he had been made to understand, that Callie was safer where she was. He reached across and picked up the envelope, grabbed it by the bottom, and yanked up.

The pictures spilled out.

Ray saw them. It was impossible not to see. The blood, the horror. His face had been red with suppressed rage, but the blood drained out, leaving him pale. Then, his eyes rose again to meet Bill's, indiscernible.

"What are you telling me?" he asked in a near whisper.

"This is what Rochester is going to do to Callie," Bill said. "You remember Rochester, right? The guy who got to Callie in her secured room in the middle of the hospital? The only reason she's not like this right now is because of Vincent."

Ray flinched at the mention of that name. "How do you figure that?"

Bill sighed. This wasn't going to be easy. "Haven't you asked yourself," he said slowly, "why Callie even lived through that night with Vincent? He should have killed her – you know it, Ray. You're a cop. Assassins don't leave witnesses."

Ray gave a twitchy shrug, but Bill could tell that the thought had occurred to him, several times. Unpleasantly.

"But Rochester is the one who murdered your father," Bill said.

Ray shook his head. "Vincent did it," he said stubbornly. "As a warning to Callie."

Bill shook his head back, "No, he didn't. Look at the pictures, Ray! This is Rochester's work! Even Callie told you that she didn't believe –"

Ray made a sweeping motion with his hand. "Don't," he said. "Callie's not in her right mind when it comes to Vincent. She could have Stockholm Syndrome for all we know."

"Well, she's with him," Bill said, playing the card. "That's who was on the plane. He wants to protect her. I don't know why, but it's got to be safer than…" He looked down at the pictures, letting his voice trail off ominously.

Ray just stared at him. Bill waited for the eruption, but instead, Ray turned away, putting his hand up, palm out.

"Get this guy out of here," he said, his voice shaking with fury. "Get him in a cell. Charge him with aiding and abetting a kidnapping."

"Wait!" Bill called.

Ray paused, looking at him over his shoulder, eyes bright with wrath.

"The guy who arranged it, his name is Jackson Rippner," Bill said, finishing what he'd originally intended to do. "I saw him, met him. I can give you a description. He's the one who gave me this envelope. We can try to get prints--"

"Get a sketch artist, then," Ray said to another cop, turning away from Bill. "That's two that have identified this Rippner. He's our link. Find out what gate they went to, find out who owns the jet she got on, LAX has got to keep records."

"That was the first thing we did, Fanning," said the other cop, who had helped pull Ray off of Bill. "Nothing's come back yet."

"All right," Ray grunted. "I need a phone call traced from Dr. Laurence Gregg's office at St. Anthony's. And get that envelope down to forensics for latent prints. Come on people, I can't believe this hasn't been done already! Daylight is burning!"

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Jackson: I thought you said I'd be in the upcoming chapter!

Me: First of all, I didn't say _which_ chapter. And Second, we did mention you. You were very important in this chapter.

Vincent: You're whining about not being in _my_ fanfic?

Me: Don't worry, Vincent. If-when I write his fanfic, I'll make sure that you make an appearance.

Vincent: (_perking up_) Seriously?

Me: Seriously.

Vincent: You promise?

Me: Absolutely.

Jackson: Wait, that's not fair!

Me: What? How do you get that?

Jackson: Well, you've written Vincent a bunch of fanfics. Me, I'm only getting my tiny one. And my tiddly little part in this one.

Me: First of all, you have _over five hundred fanfics_! Vincent has a measly 20 or so! And second, when is anything I've ever written been tiny?

Jackson: Um, let's see…"More Like His Mother," and "Untouchable." Which was a brilliant fic, by the way…

Vincent: Oh, hush. You big ass-kissing crybaby.

Jackson: You should talk!

Me: Neither of you should talk! Shut up! Let the readers go review! – Please?


	16. Stupid

Disclaimer: The Usual.

A/N: Ah, I have no excuse. It's been over a year since this story was updated and even longer since it was worked on. I have four chapters sitting in the hole. I was waiting until i had finished to update, but instead I decided to just update. Four chapters should keep you guys busy for a bit. I will, eventually, finish. I just don't know when. This is what happens when you work two jobs, leave your house at 7ish a.m. and don't get home until almost 6:30 p.m. every day.

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Chapter Sixteen: Stupid (from the song by Sarah McLachlan)

When Callie woke up, she had lost the whole day. And she was alone.

The sky had turned to twilight and the world outside looked like a wonderland. Callie lay on the bed, staring out the large window, wondering where Vincent was. Maybe he had left a note, she told herself, and managed to pull herself upright to check the bedside table. Her head throbbed in objection – sleeping through the day hadn't agreed with her, apparently. And after realizing there was no note on the table, she realized she had to pee.

The bathroom was larger than she had anticipated. It contained both a shower and a bath – a very round, deep bathtub that resembled a Jacuzzi. But it was nothing compared to the shower. It occupied the entire corner, and was hexagon shaped, with two nozzles that formed an X when the spigots were fully on. Everything was done in a soft, cocoa colored tile, and the mirror stretched fully across the room, making the bathroom seem twice as large.

She washed her face, ran a brush through her hair – someone had left a basket of personal supplies, and she didn't hesitate to make free use of them – and then wandered back into the main room. She was still in those stupid sweats from the boat, and Vincent had tossed out the clothes she had come in.

It was when she reached for the hotel room door that she saw the note. He had taped it at eye level.

"Don't go out."

Callie cussed under her breath. Lot of fair this was, him leaving her alone. Was she even allowed to call room service and get something to eat? It might let a stranger into the room.

Then the memory of what Ray had said happened to her father flashed through her mind and she felt subdued. Rochester would do worse to her. Vincent was trying to protect her. Still, she couldn't bear the thought of pacing this room, luxurious as it was, just waiting for him to come back!

She was able to hold herself off for almost a half-hour – it was closer to twenty minutes when she convinced herself she was only going to the lobby. Vincent may have not meant the lobby – he may have just been warning her not to leave the hotel itself. But in the lobby she was more than safe. He'd said to stay in public places, well, she'd get one of the women who had to work in the shops to help her, and therefore she wouldn't be alone.

She felt guilty only for the elevator ride down. Vincent would be mad at her, she realized, if she misunderstood his direction, but was that her fault? Mr. I'm-vague-and-mysterious couldn't be bothered to leave more details? Of course she'd misunderstood, who wouldn't have? He'd have nobody to blame but himself.

When she entered the small gallery where the clothing shops were, she forgot herself. She could charge anything she purchased to the room. And there was little doubt in her mind that Peter was picking up the tab for this – after all, he had loaned Vincent his jet and then his boat, right? So therefore, it was all up for grabs.

She was a kid in a candy store. For a little while, she was able to forget. Forget the horror back at home, forget the confusion of being with Vincent, and even forget her fear and grief. She knew she was just sidestepping reality, but it was worth it, for just a little while.

Such clothes…the woman, a very young Thai lady with a witch's streak through her short dark hair and eyes like toasted almonds, who was on the counter that night spoke English perfectly. Callie explained that she had no clothes at all, that she had to buy everything. The woman, whose nametag read "Lei," hooked her up with everything she needed and more. She even pointed her across the way to an associate, Beth, an American transplant, to get her a bathing suit.

Hotel services sent a bellhop to help her get all her purchases up to the room, and by then it was fully dark. Vincent was still not back. Hangars had been provided, and Callie even hummed to herself as she hung things up, but still, no sign of her self-appointed bodyguard.

It was almost nine o'clock when she had had enough. Flipping through the television channels, she discovered on the hotel's commercial line that there was a pool on the roof, encased in walls of glass. She decided to put on her bathing suit and take a trip upstairs.

The pool was heated. In the cool of the air conditioning, it felt wonderful. She floated and relaxed, and took comfort in the people around her, all of whom seemed more than content to mind their own business. Then she did some laps – in high school, she had been on the swim team, and had continued the exercise into college, but she was long out of her routine. She swam until she felt herself start to cramp, and then decided maybe it was time to take a break.

She was under water, having just done her last flip and turn, when she looked up through the watery depths and saw someone standing at the pool's edge. He looked familiar, and as Callie's head emerged, she realized Vincent was there, staring down at her.

He didn't look happy.

She treaded water for a moment, staring up at him. She waited for some kind of reprimand, some chastising remark, but nothing came. Then, he looked around, and she had the feeling he'd been scanning the entire area for several minutes. From her under-sided view, his lips seemed to be curled in a mild expression of irritation.

Finally, she realized he was holding a towel. He made a jerking motion with his head, and she didn't dare argue. She swam over to the steps where the pool became shallow and walked up and out. As the water pulled away from her body, she suddenly felt very vulnerable, almost naked, even though the suit was a one-piece and very modestly cut.

He waited for her at the top. He had opened the towel and it hung down in front of him, his arms spread. As if he expected her to step into it. Callie suddenly blushed furiously at the thought, and her cheeks gained more heat when she realized the thought made her blush. Still, the way he was looking at her, chin lowered, eyes up, an intimidating glare although it lacked real teeth, she didn't dare stop. She stepped closer to him, reaching for the towel, but he folded it around her, encasing her in its warmth and pulling her closer to him than she wanted to be.

"What are you doing?" he said, his voice low. It sent air over her wet skin and made her shiver.

"Swimming," she said, struggling to keep her tone innocent but not cowed. "Where have you been?"

He didn't answer, just hooked the towel behind her and then grabbed another one, this one going over her shoulders. He pulled her a little closer this time, his displeasure still obvious.

"You need to come back to the room with me, right now," he said, his voice cool.

She frowned. She was suddenly indignant, being rebuked as if she were a small child. "I'm pretty wet," she said. "I want to dry off a bit."

He gave her a look that nearly broke her reserve. But she clung hard. "It's not a good idea," he said. "I can't believe you didn't listen…didn't you read the note?"

"It said don't go outside," she said. "I'm not outside. I'm inside. I've been inside the hotel all day…well, night. You said don't go outside. I haven't."

He gave her another you're-an-idiot look, but she frowned, holding fast.

"Oh, come on, Vincent!" she hissed at him. "I've been alone how long? Nothing's happened to me. If you've been in the room I'm sure you saw I went shopping. Where do you think I got this? _Nothing_ happened to me." She scowled now, feeling angry. "And where _have_ you been?" The sudden thought of Cathy popped into her head and she felt irrationally jealous. She knew it appeared in her face but she didn't care – anything to get the heat off her. "With your friend from the boat? You've been having fun and expecting me to just rot in the room, bored out of my mind?"

He raised an eyebrow. The look unsettled her and she turned her eyes away. He answered by letting go of the towel across her shoulders.

"Well, excuse me," he said, his voice still subdued. "I forgot that you know everything. By all means, then, finish drying off. I'll see you when you decide to come back to the room. Take your time."

The sarcasm dripped thicker than the drops of chlorinated water that oozed off her suit. She watched him go, but he didn't look back. Fuming, she went over to a lounge chair and sat down.

For several minutes, she could hardly think – just replay the conversation over and over in her head, if it could have been called that. The looks on his face, the injury of his words. He left her alone! And she hadn't disobeyed him! What was she, a mind-reader? Was she supposed to just know everything his words meant, even if that's not what he said? He was being unreasonable!

Then the guilt came. The continuous reminders of why she was here. That was followed closely by the resentment, and then her thoughts turned back to her brother…and Laurie.

She missed him so much. It was like an ache in her belly. She didn't have this confusion, this pain with Laurie. With Laurie, she knew where everything was, no turmoil, no anguish.

She realized she'd been sitting there long enough for the towels she was wearing to be soaked through and her suit to be as dry as it was going to get. Her hair felt like straw as she stood up, heading over to the small alcove where the fresh towels were kept. She peeled off the used ones and tossed them into the hamper, and just as she was reaching for a fresh one, she felt a powerful hand grip her just above the elbow.

She turned her head but saw nothing. Whoever it was dragged her toward him, if it _was_ a _him_, and she only saw the flash of blue from the janitor's uniform he was wearing before she found herself, again, in a dark utility closet.

The light snapped on and she would have screamed if there wasn't a hand over her mouth. Rochester smiled down at her.

"Hello, Callie," he said, almost cheerfully, as he pressed her into the door, effectively keeping it shut. "Fancy meeting you here."

She looked up at him, shock and disbelief overpowering her for a moment, but then, quickly, the anger kicked in, and she started to struggle. Furiously, she lashed out and grunted, until she saw the annoyance rise in his face as well. She didn't care – this was the man who had killed her father! She suddenly felt vicious, dangerous, and even bit against the fingers that held her lips closed.

"Hey now!" he snapped at her, and she felt a sudden pain that made her left arm go numb. He must have been pressing a pressure point because she couldn't pinpoint the source. "That's not very nice. What, didn't like my message? But I thought red was every girl's favorite color."

She had no idea what he was talking about – she looked at him as if he were deranged. She didn't care, though. The sudden urge to make this monster pay overwhelmed her.

"You know, I just put the old dog out of his misery," Rochester said, pressing harder against her so it made it harder to struggle – although she did keep trying. "Didn't even tell you he had cancer, did he? But your mom died of cancer, too, right? Small cell? You know that runs in the family. Now you've got it on both sides, Callie. You know cancer is a much crueler killer than I could ever be. So if you really think about it, you'll realize I'm doing all of you a favor."

She muffled obscenities underneath his hand.

"Ah, I'm unappreciated in my own time." He wiggled against her, rubbing her suggestively. "Fine with me, most geniuses are."

She glowered at him, and unbidden, tears came to her eyes. She struggled to keep them back, realizing he would just take more perverse pleasure in her pain. She blinked several times, but he was too close for her to fake it – he saw her pain, and it made him smile.

"So what is this, Callie? You escape on a little weekend getaway? Your new sugar daddy buys you everything you need…and you're stupid enough to snap at him and let him walk away. You should have listened to Vincent. But I'm sure your head isn't exactly in the right place right now. It can't be easy, falling hard for a guy who put you through so much hell. And yet that poor stupid sap just keeps taking it from you, no matter how many times you kick him in the balls." Rochester ground his hips into her, making her wince. He got one thigh between hers, and she let out a small, whimpering cry. "It's almost kinky, if you ask me. Watching it, though. Any woman who tried to do that to me would…well, I think I'll just show you."

He leaned over her, and Callie let out a scream. It wasn't much – it caught in her throat and burned there, vibrating through her chest. She felt his mouth on her neck and the touch of his lips was like acid. She realized he was kissing her, but it was more than that – he was sucking on her skin, drawing it into his mouth.

She bucked. His leg went deeper between hers, almost lifting her feet from the floor. Her breasts ached from where they were smashed against his chest, and then she felt a pinch and realized his other hand, the one that wasn't pinning her shoulders to the door, was squeezing one of her breasts. Which left her mouth free, but she couldn't get enough air to scream.

Oh God, this was it, she realized. This was the beginning. He had been waiting to get her away from Vincent, biding his time, and now, this rotten little closet was the last thing she was ever going to see.

The thought drained her of every drop of adrenaline. She fell limp, sagging against the door. He lifted his mouth from her skin and turned his eyes to her, puzzled.

"Oh, come on, sugar, I wasn't finished yet." He chuckled. "You know, though, this has really been a lot of fun for me. You're like ripe, fresh fruit, dangling in plain sight. I can swipe you any time – usually, I'm a go-for-it kind of guy, but you're really making me appreciate the anticipation."

"You're not going to kill me," she said, her voice cracked and weakened. Vincent's words suddenly rang back to her. "Not until you've killed him. You said it yourself, before."

He blinked. "Yes, I did. Well, I'm nothing if not inconsistent." He looked her over, raising an eyebrow suggestively. "Looks like we're kindred spirits."

That got her attention. She snapped her eyes up to his. "What are you rambling about?"

He chuckled. "Look at you. That sweet little bathing suit you've got on. I saw you by the pool before. You break his balls, but you know you want him. You just can't live with what that says about you."

Her eyes widened. "You're…you don't…" She couldn't get the words out. Instead, she just snorted and looked away.

He stared at her for a long moment, and then she felt him seize her hair and pull her forward. One hand clamped around her jaw, muffling her scream, as his teeth descended to the raw spot he had created before.

And he bit down.

She felt the hot blood against her skin, and had a sudden and horrible vision of him ripping out her jugular like some jungle cat. But instead, he let go, and she felt the sting of air against torn skin right before he tossed her behind him like a used towel. She slammed face first into a shelf of towels, smacking her jaw against the metal edge, and when she recovered herself, she was alone.

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The elevator door slid open to reveal Callie standing in the car. Vincent opened his mouth to reprimand her again, his frustration that had been building over the last twenty minutes ready to vent itself on her, damn what she might think. But when he saw that she clutched a towel to her neck, and that the towel was streaked with dark red blood, he stopped in mid-remark, and immediately opened his arms to grasp her between them.

"What happened?" he asked, even as he propelled her out of the elevator and down the hall to their room. He didn't take his eyes from her as he got the keycard into its slot, observing her paleness, the slanted look in her eyes. Shock, he recognized. And there was a bright red mark along her left cheekbone, straight, as if she'd run sidelong into a pole.

"Rochester," she managed in a small voice. He got her into the bathroom and made her sit down on the toilet. Her hand had clenched around the towel, and he had to nearly pry it off, although he was gentle about it.

"What the hell did he do?" Vincent asked, even as he looked at the torn flesh. It didn't look like a knife wound, and it wasn't deep, but it was ugly, and would leave a scar.

"Bit me," she said.

Vincent paused for a moment. Rochester had gotten to her, right under his nose. He'd had time to pull her into some secluded place, and do this to her. It was a message; that was obvious. He'd found them sooner than Vincent had anticipated, but…something about this didn't ring right.

She mistook his silence for something else. She turned her eyes toward him, but didn't meet his. "Please," she said, her voice like broken clay, "no I-told-you-soes. I get it, you were right, I was wrong. I won't leave the room again."

He blinked. He'd seen her like this before…had it only been a few weeks? The dead tone in her voice, the blank look in her eyes. He couldn't stand her like this. Broken. Defeated.

He stared at her for a long moment, unsure what to do. Last time, he had kissed her, but he'd given his word, and knew that if he broke it, it would make things worse, not better. So instead, he reached behind him for a washcloth and soaked it in cold water. Then he pulled some ice from the nearby bucket and folded it into the white cloth, and pressed the bundle against the wound.

"Hold that here," he said softly. "I'll be right back."

She winced slightly as the cold met the heat, but he could tell by the lines of her brow that it immediately helped. She clamped her hand over the bundle and gave a slight nod, and he went into the main room and called for room service. He promised the guy fifty dollars if he hustled, bearing with him a considerable first aid kit. Then he went back into the bathroom.

She was crying.

It stunned him for a moment. He turned his back and suddenly waterworks. He was unprepared; the last time he'd seen her cry, he'd been chasing her through the metro rail train and just shot that district attorney. Sure, she had been upset, it was a normal reaction for a woman to cry in situations of extreme stress. It didn't mean he had to like it or that he knew how to deal with it. It had derailed him then and it derailed him now. He had no reaction.

"It's…it's not that bad," he said, feeling lame, as he went back to cleaning the mark. "I know it hurts, but…"

Stupid. It wasn't that kind of pain. It was piling on her, and finally the avalanche hit. Her shoulders shook and her breath came in wet snorts. She had pressed both hands to her face, hiding herself from him.

He resisted the urge to start swearing under his breath. In normal situations, when women cried, men felt the urge to comfort them. He'd seen it a dozen times, but had never landed himself in the position where he had to follow suit. And he knew if he put his arms around Callie, there was no telling where it might lead. He wasn't sure he'd be able to control himself.

Finally, unable to help himself any longer, he knelt down in front of her and gently pulled her hands away from her face. With a clean hand towel, he mopped up her wet cheeks and then handed her a Kleenex. She blew her nose, tossed it aside, but didn't stop crying.

"It's not your fault," he said, scrambling for something, anything to say. "It's mine. I shouldn't have left you. I should have stayed with you."

She didn't answer. Her breath was still coming out in tight wheezes, obstructed by the sobs in her throat.

He couldn't take it anymore. He got up on his knees and encircled her in his arms, being careful to keep clear of the raw, aching rip in her shoulder. He pulled her to his chest and pressed her there, and she responded, her arms going around his neck tightly.

"Callie," he said, hearing the pleading in his own voice and straining against being ashamed of it, "please, please stop crying."

How long he held her, he wasn't sure. At first she was tense in his arms, but slowly she unclenched and he felt her go soft against him. She rested her head on his shoulder, and slowly her sobs subsided.

A knock on the door gave him an excuse to let her go. He extracted himself from her and went to get the first aid kid he'd ordered. It contained everything he asked – hydrogen peroxide, ointment, gauze and tape. He went about the job of bandaging her up, but she remained silent. She hardly flinched when he had to pour the peroxide on her, to make sure the wound was sterilized. If it had been him, he would have just poured alcohol down the damn thing, but didn't feel like hearing her scream.

Rochester…he was taunting them, that was it. He knew she was Vincent's weakness and he was rubbing his face in it.

"It's not just skin, it's muscle, too," he said after medicating it thoroughly. "Which means its going to ache for a while. You might want some aspirin or ibuprofen or something." He tried to keep his tone detached, but knew it was only a front. He'd already held her, for crying out loud, he had begged her to stop crying. He'd become a complete sap! Rather disgusted with himself, he didn't even notice when she didn't answer.

When the gauze was firmly taped in place, he gave her shoulder a light pat. "I'm going to order us some dinner," he said. "You probably don't think you're hungry but I'm ordering a cheeseburger for you anyway, unless you want something different."

He was at the threshold of the bathroom when she spoke. "Club sandwich," she said. "And some soup."

He glanced at her over his shoulder, nodded, and headed back out into the main room.

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Callie sat on the toilet for several minutes after he left. She could hear him in the next room, on the telephone, then turning on the television. He sounded…odd. Strained. No doubt, he had just acted completely out of character. It had to be draining on a man to pretend he had compassion. But his tone remained polite to whoever was taking their dinner order, and he settled himself into the room's largest easy chair with a sigh as he proceeded to watch the news.

She wiped at her face, and realized the only part of her that felt remotely clean was the injury on her shoulder. Her bathing suit had completely dried, leaving a salty crust from the chlorine on her skin. She didn't want to bathe, though, for fear of getting Vincent's hard work all wet. So she went into the main room, grabbed up a pair of shorts and a T-shirt from her earlier shopping spree, and went back into the bathroom, filling the sink with hot, soapy water. The tub was too large, and the shower, in spite of its width, seemed to promise only soaking her completely, and she didn't want to mess up Vincent's efforts.

She scoured herself down as best she could, careful to avoid her wound. When she was done, she thrust her whole head into the deep sink and washed her hair. It was lucky that she had many nice bathing scrubs and body washes, as it gave the room and her a pleasant odor when she was done.

She heard voices through the door when she finally finished, her hair neat and combed, sprayed down with leave-in conditioner. A rattling of silverware and glass told her that their meal had arrived, and Callie was extremely pleased to find a bowl of creamy tomato soup beside a large croissant stuffed with turkey, bacon and avocado.

They ate in silence. Vincent didn't eat much, only munched on a steak sandwich, and didn't even touch the French fries. He seemed absorbed by the news, but from what she could tell, there was nothing on there that even remotely related to them.

It didn't surprise her – the only thing that would come onto their radar would be international, and neither she nor Vincent was important enough to make international news. Felix Reyes Torrena, however…

She nearly dropped her spoon when his face flashed onto the screen. Vincent had the captioning on so that they could read the translation in English, but it flashed across the screen so quickly Callie couldn't absorb it all. They were attempting to bring him up on charges again, blah blah, murder charges, blah blah.

Callie looked to Vincent, who was frowning thoughtfully. After the segment was done, he turned the television off and looked back at her. "What?" he asked, nonchalant.

"Do you think it means something?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Probably. Felix is the one who had the contract out on you. If the district attorney's office has finally gotten enough leftovers to level charges at him again, they can't be basing them on you because you're not there. So it might be a bluff. Or it might not." He shrugged again. "Doesn't matter to us at the moment. We have bigger problems."

She nodded. "So what's the plan?" she asked.

He didn't answer for a good minute. "I don't think we should stay here past tomorrow," he said. "In the morning, we should check out."

"Where are we going to go?"

He didn't answer, but instead got up and put the rest of his dinner back on the room service tray. He took her empty plates and piled them up, then stuffed the whole mess out into the hallway. When he turned back, she was standing up, facing him, so that they were merely inches apart.

"Housekeeper doesn't suit you," she said, folding her arms. "Come on, Vincent. I give up; I'm in this with you. I'll do what you tell me, but you have to tell me. You said something before about using me as bait…why don't we do that? We know he's here, we know he wants to get to us both, we can use that—"

"No," he cut her off. His eyes strayed to the white patch just visible through the collar of her shirt. "No, I don't want to take that risk."

She sighed, frustrated. It was getting painfully obvious that Vincent had feelings for her…why couldn't he just tell her? Was it because he was sure that she didn't have any for him? She doubted that…it was becoming painfully obvious to her as well that she was giving in to his influence, she was becoming used to his presence, becoming relaxed, even trusting. He wasn't stupid; he had to know about his power over her.

"We can't just do nothing!" she cried, flinging out her arms. He tried to go around her, turning away, but suddenly impulse seized hold of her and she grabbed his arm, yanking him back. He turned his head back to her, surprised. "Vincent, dammit! We're not going anywhere, we're just running around in circles, I can't stand it and I know you can't stand it either!" She suddenly gritted her teeth and glared up at him. "I want him too, you know! That monster murdered my father and I want some payback! Go ahead and use me, I trust you!"

The words were out of her mouth before she realized them. He seemed to stop, looking down at her, his expression unreadable. Then, very softly, he said, "Revenge isn't your style, Callie."

"Why not? He deserves it," she growled. "I'm not afraid, Vincent."

"Well, I am." If he had been someone else, he might have clamped his hand over his mouth as soon as those treacherous words escaped. Because he _was_ afraid – he was terrified. Rochester was going to torture her and kill her slowly and he wasn't going to be able to stop him. He had become weak and stupid, and he couldn't think clearly.

She took a half-step back, her face gone slack with astonishment. "Huh," she said faintly. "Didn't expect you to say that. Expected you to say that _I_ should be—"

"You _should_," he snapped, angry at himself, and at her. He tried to turn away again, but she had both hands on his arm now and was digging in. He wanted to shake her off, but couldn't find it in himself to fling her away. He turned, opening his mouth to muster up something scathing to her, something that would get her off him, something that would hurt just enough –

And instead found her mouth pressed against his.

At first he was too shocked to react. Then he wound both arms around her and squeezed her to him until there was no space between them. Callie gasped as the air was pushed from her lungs, but it didn't stop her from kissing him again, her hands going into his hair, her arms around his neck, strangling him.

He could have died happy.

No, this was too much. She was emotional, she was grieving, and she wasn't behaving like herself. It was…well, it was wrong. He couldn't take advantage of her like this, even though _she_ had initiated it, she had given him permission to break his promise. He managed to get his hands on her upper arms and put just a half-inch of room between them, almost creating a suction noise as their lips finally parted.

"Callie," he said, his voice smoky. "Callie, wait…you shouldn't…you have to be sure." He looked at her, eyes burning. God, he wanted her so badly, it would be the hardest thing he'd ever do in his life, pushing her away.

She looked up at him. It was painful, to suddenly want him like this. To know it was her only chance. Her mind, her morals screamed at her to walk away, told her it was wrong, and she knew it was wrong, all through and through.

She chose. She chose not to stop. She convinced herself that it was her only chance, the only time in her life she'd ever get this, and if she didn't do it the regret would drive her mad.

She was wrong. But she still chose.

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Jackson: Well, that brings a whole knew meaning to the expression "bite me," doesn't it?

Vincent: Wait…where is the sex?

Me: Sorry. No sex.

Vincent: What, we didn't have sex? How could we not have had sex?

Me: Yes, you had sex. No, I'm not showing it.

Vincent: Oh, you mean you're not showing it in this chapter. But it'll be in the next chapter, right?

Me: No, it won't. I'd get carried away and I'm not taking the risk. I'm trying to be less sexually graphic in my writing. I'm trying to be a good girl.

(_Both Vincent and Jackson give her very pointed looks_.)

Me: Well I am! If it makes you feel any better Vincent, I've seen it in my head and it was very cute and very naughty and…well, I'm not taking responsibility for anyone else's imagination but mine.

Vincent: The fangirls are going to be pretty pissed at you.

Me: Sorry. Not happening. I think it's better this way, anyway.

Jackson: How so?

Me: I don't know. It just is.


	17. In Praise of the Vulnerable Man

Chapter Seventeen – In Praise Of The Vulnerable Man (from the song by Alanis Morisette)

"We managed to lift a set of prints off that file," Ray said as he came back to his desk. Laurie looked up from the seat he had occupied across from it, expectant. "That didn't match you, me or Bill, at any rate. Bill was pretty sure nobody else touched them, not any of the officers, nobody. So we're doing the rounds. It could take a while." He ran both hands through his hair. Laurie had to suppress a grin – it was his father's habit. Had been, anyway.

"Bill is with the sketch artist," Laurie told him, shaking himself from the threat of an emotional relapse. "Rippner is our only human link but he's a weak one. We'll have more luck tracking the flight from LAX."

"We're working on the warrants," Ray said wearily. "You'd think with 9-11 we'd have easier access to that crap but whoever owned that jet must have the kind of diplomatic pull that comes with presidents and oil tycoons."

"Even more reason to put pressure there," Laurie said, flipping a page idly.

"Why do you keep reading that?" Ray asked, grumpy.

"Trying to figure out why Vincent would want to protect Callie," Laurie said simply.

"And what good is that going to do us? Is it going to help us find her?"

"Dr. Gregg has his reasons," Lupe said just over his shoulder, setting down a four-square container holding four steaming cups of caffeinated liquid.

"Usually, yes," Laurie agreed. "This is simply a matter of knowing your opponent."

Ray reached for the container marked "triple espresso" and tried not to roll his eyes. He wasn't up for a squabble with a couple of shrinks, even if one of them was extremely hot – and knew how many creams and sugars he took in his coffee.

"I was talking to Bill," Lupe said, sitting down in a chair she pulled up from a nearby desk. "We have to consider the possibility that he's right. That sending Callie with…well, it might not have been the worst idea."

Ray looked at her like she was insane. Laurie arched an eyebrow. "A bit of a jump, don't you think, Dr. Martinez?" he asked.

"Well," Lupe said, spreading her hands, "from what I know of the whole situation, and am not at liberty to discuss due to doctor patient confidentiality, Vincent is very efficient. He sets a goal and achieves it, regardless of the obstacles. His goal was not to kill her; that much is obvious."

"I am so sick of people suggesting that this sick fuck has feelings for my sister," Ray said, the outrage roiling behind his voice as much as he struggled to keep it subdued.

Laurie sighed. "Ray, you of all people should understand, as a cop, that people are not black and white. Vincent didn't just step out of a factory, ready made. He's not a machine, he's a human being, and therefore as complex as any human being. How do you think meat-eater assassins become like they do? You don't disregard human lives unless first your own life has been disregarded."

"Not in all cases," Lupe said. "Tell that to Ted Bundy."

"Right, but he was a serial killer," Laurie pointed out. "Serial killers don't become assassins. They don't stick to other people's schedules. They kill for their own needs and pleasures. Vincent kills for money. That's a different breed. Those kinds of men come from backgrounds that are breeding grounds of abuse and perversity. Ray," Laurie said, leaning forward and lifting up a particularly old document, yellowed with age, containing a police report, "imagine, for just a second, if you had spent every day of your life until the age of twelve getting knocked around by your dad. Just consider it, for a second. What kind of man would you have turned out to be?"

Ray didn't answer.

"His mother died in childbirth. Those kinds of things happened. So he had no maternal connection. There was a grandmother who helped take care of him in infancy but she broke a hip and died of pneumonia when he was three. Her health wasn't great even before that, and there were complaints from the neighbors of listening to the baby cry for five hours on end, one report of negligence that almost resulted in him being removed to foster care when he was found with his diaper leaking all over the floor. So think of it – an infant, completely and utterly dependent and helpless, left in the care of someone who despised him. No nurturing, no love shown, not even the basic needs met. The grandmother dies, he's just old enough to start feeding himself, but he's malnourished, he's prone to violent outbursts, he's dressed strange when he goes to school, he can't relate to any of the children in the class, the teachers think he's just a trouble maker…he had every single card stacked against him. And then let's make it worse – let's add beatings that get him periodically removed from his home and put into foster care. Sometimes group homes, sometimes a couple in need of the extra cash. As soon as he can become independent, after eighteen years of being mal-adjusted to society, he joins the military. There, his violent tendencies are a plus, not a minus. He gets himself under control, bends to military discipline because it suits him. For the first time, he becomes accepted. Now, this was in the days of the cold war, so he could have applied for all kinds of fields – and which one appeals to him the most? The kind that harms other human beings. It's the only therapy he has. Then the cold war ends, and he's cut loose, back into society. He has absolutely no people skills, no personal ties. So he uses what connections he has and starts playing for the other side of the board. The pay is better."

"This kind of man would have massive problems with authority," Lupe said thoughtfully.

Laurie shook his head. "He would have problems with _parental_ authority," he corrected. "In the military, he would learn to bend to authority and then take his aggression out in his work. He would get used to taking orders. He would prefer it. He's incapable of knowing how a normal human being functions. He has no connection to society at all. We're raised to get jobs, have families, have a life. What kind of life does he know how to have? In the military, everything is routine. He doesn't have to think, just obey, and he's rewarded. Simple, like a pet. It's probably the happiest he ever was in his life." Laurie rubbed his hand over his eyes. "God, it makes sense. It makes so much sense."

"What makes sense?" Ray asked, frustrated.

"He went to your father's house that night," Laurie said. "He saw her, Callie, with your dad. He saw how the normal deal was supposed to work. He'd probably glimpsed it half a dozen times but maybe he'd just never been inside it before. Mid-life crisis, whatever you want to call it, has hold of him, making him ask himself what his life could have been like, and then he sees this. He missteps. He starts questioning himself. This guy never questioned himself before, it throws him off. He starts to have emotions he can't place or even understand, and they're surrounding Callie. Everything connects to her. So he doesn't kill her. He is incapable of harming her. She is the last shred of humanity left in him."

"Think you're being a little dramatic?" Lupe asked, a touch worried.

"Then why did Vincent murder—" Ray started, but Laurie cut him off.

"He didn't, pure and simple. You go look at those pictures Bill brought us again and you'll see it was Rochester, not him. Vincent wouldn't have harmed your father, wouldn't have touched a hair on his head. He was the kind of father Vincent wished he had. Attaching himself to Callie attaches him to the kind of life he wants, or wished he could have had, as well. By extension, it makes her family his."

Ray looked pale. "So if this is all true, what you say…what makes you think he's going to let Callie go? What if he just decides to…keep her?"

All three of them fell silent for a long minute.

"We can't get Callie back until the threat of this Rochester guy is eliminated," Laurie finally said. "So we have to find out where Vincent took her."

"And then what?" Ray asked. "Wait until they have their big movie-climax-showdown and then swoop in and take her back?"

"Something a little less dramatic, and a lot less pleasant," Laurie suggested. "Ray, by extension, you're a part of his new family, too. You're Callie's brother. I doubt he would hurt you."

"Sorry I can't say the same."

"No, wait, Ray," Lupe said. "I think I see where this is going. You might be able to get Callie back if you play along."

"Play along?" Ray was fuming. "Play with this sick game?"

"Well, you'll certainly do smashingly well with that attitude," Laurie returned sarcastically.

"And besides, all of this might turn out to be complete hogwash," Ray said, standing up. "You have no way of knowing—"

"Ray, why do you think I run an institute for the criminally insane?" Laurie remarked. "Because I have a good beside manner? No, because I can read people. I know their stories and I look at them as human beings, not as monsters and not as madmen. There's a pattern in everyone's life. Break the pattern and you break the person. Either for good or ill. It can free them or damn them. And I'm telling you that you have to put aside your personal feelings for this man if you ever want to get your sister back."

Ray stared at him for a long moment, made a noise of disgust, grabbed up his triple espresso and walked away.

"That went well," Lupe commented.

Laurie didn't respond.

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Sometime as the sun was slowly turning the far horizon into a blur of blue, Callie slipped out of Vincent's arms and half walked, half limped to the bathroom. She turned on the shower and sat down in the stall, letting the hot and cold water mix around her, easing some of the ache away.

Vincent was asleep. More soundly asleep than she would have thought. She had pegged him as a light sleeper, but after the night's exertions, she really wasn't surprised.

Against the cool glass of the shower stall, her bandage rested, undisturbed. With everything they had done, she expected it to be hanging off her, but Vincent had been careful around it. She reached up, yanking at some of the white tape. She was curious, for some odd reason. But she couldn't see it very well, so as soon as she had pulled one strip off she gave up.

It was an excuse. An excuse not to think. She reached out and cupped some water in her hand and splashed it onto her thighs, rubbing away the residue that resided between them. She hadn't known that sex was such a messy thing. The movies never showed you that part.

She sighed, pulling her knees up and resting her elbows against them, face in her hands. It was comforting, sitting here among the running water. It was like a shield around her. When she was younger, she had always taken too long in the shower, her mother and later on her father pounding on the door for her to get out, people needed to use the bathroom. They didn't understand that it was her safe place. Here, among the cool tiles and the silver faucets, and the particular way sound echoed, she felt safe.

She was in the awkward stage of knowing she had done something very, very wrong, but was unable yet to regret it. Still, her rationalizing mind told her that when this was over, and she never saw Vincent again, this time would be the source of good memories, as opposed to the awful ones of that night.

She was reaching, and she knew it. Logic told her that she would regret it – oh, how she would regret this night! It would bring her nothing but pain and heartache, because there was no future with Vincent. And sex was just an excuse, letting the body have at when the mind couldn't process. Vincent couldn't tell her how he felt, couldn't communicate intimately with her, so instead he made love to her. It was a cop-out. And in the end, it would lead to a dead-end road where they would part ways. For good.

Still…everyone had told her that sex was great, but it wasn't what the movies and the pornos wanted you think it was. It felt great, but it was temporary. It was never as satisfying as it promised to be, when it was just used as a physical exercise. Her father had once told her, though, that when a man and a woman shared their first time, it was like they were going on a journey together, and it made it so much more than just animal pleasure.

But Vincent…images flashed through her, sending peculiar tremors through her. He had been everything her darkest imagination had wanted. There were probably a hundred more things he would do if she asked him. She shook the thoughts away. It would do no good. These things would haunt her until she died, she didn't have to start now.

There was a knock on the bathroom door, jarring her from her thoughts. She had locked the door behind her, wanting privacy – otherwise, she had no doubt Vincent would have just entered. There were no boundaries anymore, she could sense it. She considered ignoring it. She didn't want to see him right now, she wanted to be left alone, she wanted to think and figure out what she was going to do, she wanted to get her head straight ---

The knocking got louder. "Callie? I have to take a piss."

She sighed, pulled herself up and turned off the water. She grabbed one of the towels and wrapped it around herself, and pulled the bathroom door open. Vincent stood there, naked as she had been, looking confused.

"You all right?" he asked.

She was standing to the side, so as not to be in his way, almost behind the door. "Yeah. Come on. You gotta go."

He looked at her as he passed, perplexed. Approaching the toilet, he lifted up the lid, and Callie slipped out. Hastily, she dried herself off, and pulled out the sleep shorts and shirt she had bought earlier, slipping them on. Then she sat down in the chair with the long seat for her legs, and waited.

She couldn't bear to get back in that bed. And he was going to see that she was dressed, but she could also no longer bear to be naked. It was going to provoke a conversation – hell, probably a fight. He wouldn't understand. Men generally didn't.

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Vincent emerged from the bathroom to find Callie clothed and sitting in that recliner chair that had too long of a seat. He paused, and then sighed.

_This_ was why he didn't have relationships. The talking, always the talking. The sharing of the feelings, the sorting out of the cues. He didn't have the head or heart for those things. But Callie…Callie made him. She made him want to. She made him stop and think and be bemused. She made him nuts and a perverse part of him liked it.

He sat down on the corner of the bed closest to her. What kind of insanity was it that made a person _want_ to be unhappy? Because the thought of just ignoring her and going back to bed, which had its appeal, seemed like a betrayal. He was compelled to stop, compelled to ask her:

"What is it?"

She didn't answer. That was worse than anything. Peter had once told him the only thing more dangerous than a scorned woman was a silent woman.

He did the only thing he could think to do. He asked what no man should ever ask. "Did I do something wrong?"

She looked at him, in the dark. There were no lamps; he could only see the outside light reflecting in her eyes.

He said, "Because I can't imagine what I could have done between coitus and getting up to pee."

Sarcasm now. He saw her smirk. He wasn't sure that was a good sign.

"You didn't do anything, Vincent," she said, and the tone of her voice was worse, oh so much worse than he had anticipated. It was…detached. Like he used to be. "You're fine."

He hesitated. "So…are you coming back to bed?"

"No."

So simple, so final. It made him jerk his head back. "All right, look, you're going to have to be a bit more thorough in explaining this to me. Like I said, if I did something wrong, just tell me, all right? Don't leave me hanging, Callie, I can't take that sort of thing."

When did he get so honest? Why were the thoughts in his head finding their way to his mouth so easily when he was in her presence? Having sex with her had changed something, had caused his wiring to go funny. He was being…intimate. The thought almost made him shudder.

"You didn't do anything wrong," she said. "No more than I did anyway. And it isn't your fault, you can't help it."

He stood up. "What is that supposed to mean?" he asked, coming closer to her. To his surprise, she blushed and covered her eyes, shielding her sight from him.

"God, Vincent, please put on some shorts."

"Why?" he demanded. He put his hands on his hips, enjoying her discomfort. It felt a lot better than not knowing what the hell was going on. "You didn't mind before."

"That was before," she said, turning away. "Adults usually have these kind of conversations clothed. Okay? Please, just humor me."

Grumbling, he turned away and found his shorts. He sat down on the bed to pull them on, muttering under his breath.

"Why are you mad at me?" he blurted, arms extended, elbows on his knees. "What did I do?"

"I told you that you didn't—"

"Don't say that again, Callie," he said, getting angry. "It's not true and you know it. Whether I meant to do anything or not, I did something and you're unhappy."

She stared at him. "When did you get like this?" she said.

"Like what?"

"Like Mr.-You-better-share-your-feelings-or-else. Vincent, I'm not mad at _you_. I'm mad at _myself_."

He slapped his thighs. "That's great," he said scornfully. "That's _so_ much better. So what did _you_ do, then, that you're mad at yourself?"

She sighed again, lolling her head back against the headrest of the chair. "God, Vincent, I can't explain it to you!"

"Why not?"

"Because…because it isn't the kind of thing that you can explain to a person!"

"You're regretting having sex with me," he said. "There, explained. What was so difficult about that?"

She stood up, feeling a surge of real anger toward him. "God, you are the most difficult man on this planet! Not everything is black and white!" She stomped away from him, toward the other end of the room, where the television sat in the large entertainment center and the dresser extended almost half the length of the room. He arched an eyebrow. Funny, he had wanted to say something very similar to her.

"Exactly how am I being difficult? I actually thought I was being rather simple. You…" he trailed off, waving his hand. He didn't know how to say it. She regretted him. Fine, he understood. Why shouldn't she? He was poison to everyone. He had killed his mother coming out of her. He had ruined his father's life and then taken it away after his father returned the favor. He had kept everything and everyone at arm's length for his entire life, not for their sake but for his. Because getting too close, they would see – they would see the _thing_ that he was, which even he was getting used to seeing when he looked in the mirror. He was worse than a monster. He was less than human.

He was Vincent.

His silence had thrown her off. He realized she hadn't responded to his comment, and when he blinked in surprise, he felt that his eyes were moist. More moist than they usually were.

Oh hell.

"You're right," he said, his voice dead. "You're right, it was a mistake. This whole thing was a mistake."

She drew a heavy, shaking breath. Was she crying too? Suddenly she was in front of him, kneeling at his feet. Her hands grasped his knees, a bit too high for him to be comfortable.

"Not for the reasons you think," she said, shaking her head. "This…this isn't me. You know I was a virgin. I don't believe in doing these things but I let myself get carried away. And you didn't…you're not the reason. _We_ are the reason, you and I. You have a life completely…there just isn't any common ground between us, Vincent, except for these feelings you and I have, which don't make any sense. This whole situation is doomed."

"Because I'm a contract killer," he said. "That's why, because of a job?"

"It's a _job_ to you," she said, with a slow shake of her head. "That's the problem, Vincent. How can human life be just a job? You've…you've killed so many people and you don't feel_ anything_ about it. But I do, that's a difference between us that we can't work out. It's not like we're arguing on whose career comes first or where we'll live or how many kids we'll have. The basic fundamental difference between us is that I respect human life _because its life_, and you don't."

He was staring at her, listening. He was trying to make sense of her words.

"I could…I could change."

She felt like she was holding her breath. It was the closest he'd probably every come to making a declaration of his feelings for her, but she knew it was coming from a heart that had too many scars, a soul too battered and lost to find its way out of the dark. She felt a terrible sorrow, and put her arms around his neck, feeling a powerful urge to cry.

Couldn't everyone be saved? She had always believed that. It was one of the reasons she had gone into the field she'd chosen. To help others find their way out of the dark. But what did she know? She was as lost as any of them.

"I can't be your reason," she said, her voice quivering. "I'm not enough, Vincent." _I'm not God_.

Slowly, hesitantly, he raised one arm and looped it around her back. This was…wrong. To be vulnerable like this felt so wrong. He closed his eyes, feeling exhausted. He couldn't take…being around her anymore. It confused and befuddled him too much. And the only way away from her was to bring this mess to a head.

Abruptly, he pulled her away from him, turning from her. It was wrong, it was all wrong. This had gotten too far out of hand. "Fine," he said, his voice rough. "Fine…we're making too much of this anyway, Callie. Don't feel obligated to me, you shouldn't. I mean, it's one night. It's not a big deal." He stood up, walked away.

Callie wanted to shout at him that that wasn't true – it wasn't one night. If she had really believed that all Vincent had wanted from her was a night of sex, she wouldn't feel this way. If she believed that it was just a one night stand, no strings, no complications, no obligations, she would have just blamed herself for being weak and moved on. But the things he'd said to her…while they were together, entwined as closely as two human being could be. The things he'd whispered to her, the things she saw in his eyes, felt in his body…no, he was defending himself now, shutting her out. It had all gone wrong, she had messed up, taken a mistake and made it worse. Put salt in a gaping wound.

But she said nothing. The conversation was over. She couldn't fix it, not right now. Maybe another time. She prayed for another time, even though she didn't think she had any right praying at this moment.

"Take the bed," he said, going to the closet and pulling on some clothes.

"Vincent, I don't want—"

"Take the damn bed, Callie," he said, cutting off her protest in a voice that forbid her from objecting again. "It's okay."

"What are you going to do?" she ventured after a long, stretching moment.

He sat down in the seat she had occupied. "I'm going to think," he said simply. "Figure out a way through this. Go on, get a bit more sleep. You need it." His tone was so dry.

Callie sighed, feeling more empty than before. She crawled up toward where the comforter had been twisted and kicked down, and finished knocking it from the bed. She managed to pull back a sheet and get under it. To her enormous surprise, she was asleep only a few minutes after she put her head to her pillow.


	18. Ready, Steady, Go!

Chapter Eighteen: Ready Steady Go

Laurie's vision was getting blurry. The button for the elevator seemed to develop a twin as he tried to press it. He hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours. That had to be some kind of personal record. Even in medical school, he had always managed to collapse for at least an hour or two a night. But every time he shut his eyes he just kept seeing Callie's face.

"Dr. Gregg."

Recognizing Ray's voice, he did not turn around. He had worked with his father a long time ago, in a building very similar to this one. He was used to the detectives not liking what he had to say. Nobody wanted to empathize with criminals. Nobody wanted to feel sorry for them and think about the horrible lives they had lived that drove them to crime.

He was a bleeding liberal. He knew it. Still, it had led him to success and he wasn't one to second guess success.

"I'm going to try and catch a few hours sleep," Laurie told him as he reached his side. "I probably won't get it but I'm going to try."

Ray nodded. "You know, what you said before. About guys like this Vincent being created by abuse—"

"Yes."

"Well, before I was undercover, my first assignment was homicide. We caught a guy – he was a contract killer for the mob. Perfectly normal suburban family. Parents loved him. Had a good childhood. He got into the killing business because he wanted to be respected and feared. He was the coolest sociopath I'd ever had the displeasure of meeting. Hated anybody and anything that was more affluent than him. Which meant he hated a lot."

Laurie raised an eyebrow, expecting the point.

Ray went on. "Another guy, a hit man, we grabbed him on sheer luck. This guy was connected. His lawyers managed to fuck the case so we couldn't make anything stick but he had a wife, a family. Two kids, the whole picture. Was never smacked around a day in his life. Doctors diagnosed him as having a multiple personality disorder. Was never caught or treated because the other personality kept itself so perfectly secret. That was one for the books."

Laurie looked at him, patiently.

"My point," Ray finally said, "is that not everybody who does terrible things does them because they're acting out some deep-set childhood trauma. Not all monsters are made monsters. Some are just born them. Some people are just plain evil."

Laurie nodded. "True. They are. There are all kinds of reasons people do the things they do. But this one," he said, meaning Vincent, "this one I know better. This one has your sister not because he wants to harm her, but because he can't hurt her."

Ray met his eyes levelly for a long moment. Then he said, "Whatever I have to do to get my sister back, I'll do it."

Laurie nodded. He didn't feel bleary anymore. "I think I have a few ideas."

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Callie had slept deeper than she realized.

When she woke up, she was aware of something…no, someone…pressed against her back. Curled around her, intimately. Warm, firm…dammit, it had to be Vincent. Apparently, he had had some second thoughts since their previous conversation.

She didn't move for several long moments. She couldn't be angry at him. It was her fault. If she hadn't initiated it, nothing would ever have happened. He made a promise and he had been keeping it. She was the one who blew it. Could she expect him to flip on and off like a lightswitch? She couldn't even ask that of herself, because…well, it felt nice.

His hand was on her hip, moving slowly back and forth up her ribcage and then down again. His fingers danced, making circles and other patterns through her bedclothes.

She was touched than he was still feeling playful, even after all their talking. She was sure, when he'd told her to take the bed, that he was very hurt. As much as he could acknowledge being hurt, and even then that couldn't be much.

She had read his file in the office, the one Ray had brought to her. She remembered the records from his childhood, the neglect and abuse he'd suffered from his father. She couldn't image being just a baby, an innocent, blank-slate-of-a-baby, and having your closest living relation loathing your existence. It broke her heart to think about it.

His strokes were getting a bit more…sexual, now. He had dipped under her nightshirt and was slowly pushing down the waist band of her shorts. He leaned over, and nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck.

"Vincent," she said, turning just a little. "We can't—"

"I'm not Vincent."

The words stopped her cold, and she realized that the hair that was in her peripheral vision was dark, not gray. The facial hair that scratched her skin was fuller and softer, not Vincent's perpetual salt-and-pepper shadow. And with a great jerk of her muscles, she tried to turn, but he grabbed her hard, throwing one leg around hers, imprisoning them, and one hand curling up from below to clamp around her neck.

Rochester.

She opened her mouth to scream. She got out a good start of it, but he was fast. Something was suddenly stuffed between her jaws, and she gagged to realize it was a wet hand towel.

"I know what you're thinking," he said, casually, yanking her back and pressing against her, rubbing his hips suggestively against her backside. "Haven't we done this before? Certainly. Isn't it getting a little old? Yes. Which is why I'm afraid you probably won't ever be getting out of this bed again, Callie. I've done a lot more than thrown the deadbolt – those things can be jimmied. I've got the entire door braced that will keep your new lover from coming to the rescue."

He seemed to fold around her like a human blanket. His leg wrapped around her thighs made any kicking she did with her lower legs useless. She squeaked and gargled through the gag but he seemed to respond with arousal to her outrage.

"You dirty little bitch," he said in a nearly affectionate tone. She winced as she felt his hand slip under her nightshirt and grasp her breast. The worst of it was, he wasn't being crass about it – his fingers started to play with the object and stupidly it responded, a dog panting eagerly for a stranger who showed it kindness. She gave a little jerk but she could feel his amusement rumble against her back in a chuckle. "What, I thought bad boys turned you on, sugar! You certainly seemed to get all wet for a former assassin who held you hostage."

She almost choked on the gag. The thought that this creep was aware of the previous night made her sick. Worse, had he been listening in? What disgusting things had he been doing while--?

Alarm suddenly spread through her when his hand left her breast and dipped down, going to the waistband of her shorts. He'd already pushed them down by a few inches and her naked hip was exposed to his touch. Still, he seemed intent on going farther. She gave a jerk, trying to shake him off. He laughed.

"You know, I had you pegged for liking the rough stuff, but you're just like any other girl. Seems its Vincent who's gone soft. I'll bet he was even gentle with you without asking." He had his hand under the waistband now. She gave a strangled cry of distress. "Well, I can be gentle too, baby. I can take it slow. As slow as you like."

She suddenly realized that his other hand was grasping tighter around the cords of her neck, and it was getting harder to breathe.

"Or maybe you're bored with that trite bullshit and would like something a little more… raw."

Callie closed her eyes, desperately trying to think. She didn't have any access to weapons, her body was completely imprisoned. The only kind of escape she could muster was a mental one.

Laurie's voice was clear in her mind. Men like Rochester got their rocks off by inducing fear and panic in their victims. The struggle was the payoff – the harder the fight, the sweeter the victory. He wanted her to fight him – he wanted her to kick back. Sure, he would hurt her worse; break her down into little pieces. But that was the point.

There was no use in breaking something already broken.

Suddenly, she made herself go limp. She even fought against the instinctive self-preservational force that made her fight for air against his grip. She had been in this half-dead state before – she had gone into shock right after Vincent had shot Annie. She just had to get her head into the right place---

He let go of her neck. Apparently, he thought she'd fainted from lack of air, but as he pulled her closer to him, he quickly reassured himself that he hadn't squeezed that hard. She made her eyes go blank, staring into nothing. He jerked her and her head lolled on her neck, a broken doll.

He pulled himself up on his arm and she was almost under him now, and he stared down at her, into her face. She saw flickers of anger but ignored them. She couldn't show anything, not a single flash of emotion. If she didn't care what he did to her, it would piss him off. And an angry man was a man who made mistakes.

Sure enough, the hand came down and whacked her hard across the jaw, causing her head to turn into the sheets. She didn't flop back up, and he had to pull her back to face him. He was starting to show his irritation now, his lips twitching, his eyes glinting.

"Going to make this unpleasant for both of us, yes?" he said in a clipped tone, and then, to her internal horror, he smiled. "Guess I'll just have to hurt you more."

He slapped her again. This one sent a trickle of blood down her nose and across her cheek. And the pain sent a flash of something through her head. A picture.

A picture of a gun.

A picture of a gun stuffed into the mattress just below her.

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Vincent sat up on the lounger with a bit of a start. He had fallen asleep harder than he realized. It must have been all the activity. And the emotional strain. He wasn't used to that sort of encounter from before, so logic only dictated that it would take itself out on him physically.

He'd been dreaming. It was a dream he hadn't had in a very long time. He was a child, and he was locked on a room. It was dark, nobody was home, he was alone. He was hungry and there was another, unpleasant sensation, not like pain, but definitely upsetting. He was calling and calling, but nobody came. He was trapped there, forgotten, alone.

It quickly faded. It always faded when he'd had it during his youth. He never expected to have it again. His heart was beating too rapidly in his chest and he had to sit there a moment to catch his breath. Sweat dripped down his temples and down into the palm of his hand, pooling on his skin. He considered it while he forced his body to relax. He had always had complete control of his physical reactions. Most of them.

Callie had done this to him. An irrational anger flamed through him. She slept, as heavily as he had a few moments ago, and her snores were soft and rumbling. In the bed, where they had been together. They had been together and now they were apart.

She had undone him. He knew this, had been telling himself this for several days, but the full impact was now becoming very apparent to him. This could mean his life. This could mean the end of the world as he knew it. Before, that hadn't sounded so bad. His world hadn't interested him for a while now. His life was devoid of meaning, of purpose. Why did he care if he lost it? Death had never scared him so much. It was only the knowledge that when he died, nobody would have known that he had existed. Nobody would have cared.

_She_ cared. Or at least she was _supposed _to care. That gave him…hope. But still, forever the wedge. Forever the distance and the strain. She wouldn't be with him. The cost was too high. For him as well. And yet he still wanted. Irrationally wanted.

The anger flamed higher.

He stood, pulling with him the Glock he kept secured under the cushion. He always slept with a gun within arm's reach. He moved it without thinking if he ever changed sleeping places. Before it had been under the bed mattress. He'd gotten these off Peter's boat and packed them into his luggage. There was another, still secured under his socks and underwear, loaded. He had never needed more than one gun, but he'd taken two. He realized now he'd meant to give it to Callie.

She was a good shot. He remembered the pictures, the confidence in her stance. Sure, her skill was probably stemming from fear of _him_, of the consequences of their previous encounter, but he doubted that now things had changed between them that she had lost that skill. Rochester would be enough to keep it sharp.

He sighed. Too complicated. He needed simple. And he was still angry, he realized.

He was angry at her.

Delayed reaction. This anger should have come sooner, but instead he'd gone with groveling. It felt…humiliating, in retrospect. Begging her. He did not beg anyone. Now it was too late, but he couldn't shake it. He paced, his bare feet silent against the thick carpet. He wanted to wake her up, but knew it was pointless. He'd just be feeding the beast. Making things more complicated. Besides, they had already exchanged all the necessary words.

This had to end. He had said as much before. The only way to end it was to bring Rochester out into the open. And the only way to do that…

Vincent sighed again. He didn't want to do it. But not doing it was only making things worse. He was delaying the inevitable.

He went to his suitcase and pulled out the extra Glock. He pressed a fully loaded clip into it and cocked the gun, putting one bullet in the chamber. Then he walked over to the bed.

"Callie," he said, tapping her shoulder.

She stirred, but didn't wake. She would be groggy when she woke. Maybe she wouldn't understand him. Still, something would not let him let it go.

"Callie," he said, leaning down into her face. He shook her until her eyes opened, but he could tell by the dilation of her pupils that she was not awake, merely reacting to him. Maybe she would remember. Stress sometimes did miraculous things to people.

"I'm putting this gun –" he showed it to her, saw her eyes flicker, but nothing else, "—under the mattress." He reached below and shoved the gun deep under, until it was almost directly below her, on her side of the bed. Rochester wouldn't stumble upon it.

She nodded, hummed an affirmative, and then went back to sleep, snoring again in seconds. Vincent turned to the closet and pulled out the pale gray Armani suit he had also gotten from Peter's yacht.

It was very similar to the one he'd worn the night he met Callie.

He got dressed and left the hotel room.

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It took everything in her not to kick against Rochester as his hands pressed against her windpipe. She told herself, over and over in her head, that he wasn't going to kill her. She hadn't suffered enough. He hadn't played with her enough. She would pass out, he would let go, and she would revive. It was hard to hang onto those thoughts. The world started to grow blurry and then glow with a thousand dots of light. She vaguely heard him start swearing at her – he had been sure, she knew, that choking her would get her to react. At least get her kicking.

More slapping. His hands pulled away from her throat as he viciously dragged her back to consciousness. The force of the blows knocked the gag from her mouth. Her cheek was streaked with blood from her nose, now possibly in the shape of his handprint. He grabbed her face, squeezing her cheeks together, making her lips pucker out. Her mind briefly flashed to the encounter at St. Anthony's in the closet, with Vincent. In spite of herself, she gave a twitch.

He smiled at her. Then, of all the disgusting things, his tongue was suddenly against her cheek, lapping up the blood. Then he was kissing her, that same tongue shoving into her mouth, and the taste of her own blood made her retch. Against, she gave a twitch.

He had to throw her off the bed. She had to make him so angry that he would toss her off the side. But how? There was no way to predict the actions of this man. His tongue slid around her mouth, the tip tracing her teeth before he plunged further, triggering her gag reflex. She considered biting down, but found that her fear stood in her way. If she really hurt him, what would he do to her? He had already promised a hundred grizzly things. But she reminded herself that Rochester, like Vincent, was to be feared the most when he was calm. Shatter the calm, shatter the fear.

Her body made the move for her. Unable to stand the intrusion any longer, her throat muscles contracted and she coughed, making her teeth rattle and bite down. He gave a squeak, pulled back and looked at her, eyes glittering.

"You sure can spoil a good time, you know that?"

She was still coughing, unable to yank it back. His weight pressed against her chest made it nearly impossible and she was going to choke again. He seemed to sense this, because he eased off and rolled her over, pressing her face down on the bed. She felt his hands on her back, slipping under her shirt, fingers spreading over flesh. His leg looped over hers again, making sure she didn't try anything.

"Don't want you to die yet, not before we've had our fun."

"Why now?" she managed, once the pipes were clear for a split second. She coughed again, several more times, painful hacks that made her want to spit up. She didn't dare. He'd push her face into it. "Why do this now? You finally run out of patience?"

"Oh, the heart has reasons that reason cannot know," he sing-songed. "But if you want to know the truth, the opportunity to torment your new lover was just too overwhelming. I'm pretty sure he's going to come pounding at that door any second now, but I've made damn sure that he won't be able to get in here. The only thing getting through that door is your screams."

"Fuck you."

"Hmmm…now we're talking." Callie ground her teeth. She'd let him bait her. He squirmed against her backside, one hand starting to roam freely. Fingers slithered along her curves and past her hip, resting on one of her rear cheeks. The journey was leisured. "Don't get any silly ideas that you'll be able to get through this by closing your eyes and pretending its Vincent." His hand had moved up to the waistband of her shorts and was very purposefully pulling them down. The alarming sensation of air against bare skin made her shut her eyes, desperate to think of something, anything to delay this. "I have a very definitive style." He buried his mouth in the hairs at the base of her neck. "You'll be able to tell."

A whimper lodged in her throat and she swallowed it down. "So the plan is to rape me while Vincent listens outside?" she asked. "What happened to all your romantic plans? The part about it lasting for a few days?"

"Oh, it will," Rochester chuckled. The shorts were past her hips now, tangled at her knees. Any second now and his hand was going to invade a place where she wouldn't be able to think clearly.

"Please," she snorted, forcing herself to sound calm. "Whatever you think, I don't care if you put up a cement wall against that door, Vincent will find a way to get it down. He's smarter than you."

He reached around, grasping her chin and pulling her head back, causing her spine to arch painfully upwards. She could almost see him if she turned her eyes all the way. In her ear, his mouth said wetly, "If he's so smart, then why did he leave you all alone when he knew damn well I was here?"

"Maybe it's a trap," she said. "And I'm the bait."

He laughed, the air whistling into her ear canal and causing shivers to go all down her body. "Vincent would _never_ use his precious Callie as bait. How stupid do you think I am?"

"Pretty stupid," she said, pushing the button. "You walked into the trap, didn't you?"

He smiled against her skin. "If it really was a trap, Callie," he said, his voice much more serious, "you never would have told me."

"And if it really was a trap," she countered, "_Vincent_ would never have told _me_."

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Vincent paced around the lobby. It was too early in the morning, nobody was awake yet, except for the night duty clerk, who smiled at him cheerfully and wisely kept his mouth shut. Vincent picked up the newspaper, _The Los Angeles Times_, which always came ridiculously early, and sat down comfortably. He flipped through it, waiting patiently for _The New York Times_ to show up.

Glancing at his watch, he realized he didn't have time. He'd left the cage open long enough. If the animal hadn't wandered in by now, it wasn't going to at all. And it was a foolish plan anyway, really, when he thought about it. Too obvious. Rochester wouldn't fall for it.

Then again, he'd very proudly displayed his desire to antagonize Vincent by attacking Callie at the pool. Obviously Rochester wanted him as much as he wanted her – probably more. But it was safer to do it here. Away from Callie's family…

There it was again. Vincent felt irritation. He was trying to turn his skin back into steel and he just kept letting her get under it. Even the reason he was going back upstairs so soon, was because he didn't want to leave her exposed so long that Rochester could actually harm her before he got there.

He was already headed for the elevator, the _Times_ discarded on the end table. He pressed the button, and in the privacy of the mirrored car, he reached into his breast pocket for the particular tools he had brought with him from the hotel room.

He hadn't been sure, while on the yacht, what he would need, but Vincent liked to be prepared for all possibilities. It was a small tool kit, no bigger than an oversized marker – magnetized screwdriver heads rattled around the bottom as he detached the base. This was an older hotel, why he'd picked it – most of the modern ones didn't have hinges outside in the hallway for exactly these kinds of reasons. The doors usually opened inward.

Not this hotel. Here, the doors opened outward. Which meant the hinges were outside.

Vincent did not knock. When he reached the correct room, he pressed his ear to the door. He could hear vague noises – he did not like to think about what they were. But it was obvious that Callie was not alone. She wouldn't be talking to herself, certainly not in those tones. Instead, he turned his attention to the door hinges.

He reached up and felt with his fingertip the kind of screw head that held the hinges in place, and quickly put the proper tip in place on the screwdriver's base. He stretched hard – in spite of appearances, he really was not a very tall man. He was usually able to fake a few inches just by being so damn intimidating – and when push came to shove, lifts in his shoes. The tip of the screwdriver when into place, but the hinge was old and didn't want to turn. In this awkward position, it would take more time than he liked to get the door open. He couldn't get his arms positioned to use the right muscles to get it done faster. But he pushed as hard as he could anyway, until the join of his shoulder was screaming for him to stop.

Vincent had long since trained his body to endure simple things like pain. He compartmentalized it, and the surge of victory he felt when the screw went loose and wobbled so that he could grasp and pull it the rest of the way with his fingers was almost worth it. The lower screw was easier, as he was pushing downward and had better leverage.

Now, came the real trick. Getting the door open from the opposite way without alerting the party inside. He hadn't even attempted the lock, knowing that Rochester's ears would be attuned to listening for any small sign of his return. Getting a door to open from the opposite direction was much, much noisier business than rattling a key in a lock.

Gently, delicately, and much more slowly than he wanted to, Vincent grasped the empty hinges and started to tug.


	19. I Love You To Death

Chapter Nineteen: I Love You To Death

Nothing. It had only been hours, true enough, but Jackson Rippner did not exist.

There was no criminal record on him in their database and nothing was getting any hits anywhere else. Ray remembered with despair that it had taken a little over two weeks to get any hits on Vincent. But Callie's trail was getting colder and two weeks would be a death sentence.

"Ray, you're going to dig a trench in my carpet."

He looked at Laurie, and then toward Lupe. She gave him a gentle smile, and he felt the urge to go sit next to her. Being close to her was comforting.

It was maddening, that this was all they could do. Laurie had told him all about Jackson Rippner's call to the hospital, and while they had checked the telephone records, it had come up to an untraceable cellular phone line – Ray had a hard time believing that there were such things, but sure enough, there was no name, nothing on the records that could even give them a hint of a trail.

The airport hangar's logs were not much better. The jet they had used to smuggle Callie out of the country belonged to a company that existed only on paper. There were no names, nothing. A ghost owned that plane.

It occurred to him that Vincent obviously had had help from very clever resources. The kind of resources that had enough pull to make themselves invisible. It would take weeks to get a single name from either the invisible company or the cellular phone, weeks they didn't have.

Now all they had was the thin possibility that when Rippner called back, they might be able to use their fancy equipment to locate him. The line itself may be untraceable, but cellular phones still needed satellites to work, and satellites could be used to triangulate a position. It was a very long shot, and he only had himself to rely on. Laurie and Lupe were doctors, not cops.

All the could do was wait, and pray.

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Jackson Rippner had learned during the course of his tenure as a manager to not ask too many questions. At least, not the kind of questions that put the boss in a spot. But he had played a lot of games in his day, and this one didn't make too much sense to him.

There were the facts as he had laid them out for himself. Fact: Peter had given the job of killing Calliope Fanning to both Rochester and Vincent. Fact: Vincent had decided to protect Fanning instead of kill her. Fact: Peter had assisted Vincent in this very effort. Fact: Peter had directly ordered him to aid Rochester in his mission. Fact: He had also ordered him to assist Vincent in getting the girl out of the country. Fact: Rochester knew where they were going, because Peter had told him to tell him. So he had logically followed.

So what the hell was Peter doing? Playing both sides? Playing against himself?

These were exactly the kind of questions he shouldn't ask. What Peter did was Peter's business. But the conversation with Rochester in the back of his cab kept playing over and over in his head. Whose side was Peter on? Could it possibly be both?

His phone rang. Speak of the devil. "Jackson."

"They're looking for you, you know."

"I figured," he replied to Peter's smooth baritone. "They won't find me."

"There is a slim chance. You told Dr. Gregg you would call him back on his cellular phone. They could be setting up a trap. But there's a bigger problem."

"Which is?"

"They've been attempting to find me using the records at the hangar in L.A.X. Even after they have Ms. Fanning back, I doubt that Detective Fanning is going to let the whole thing drop."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to prepare to leave L.A. I need you in Miami. There's another job."

"But what about this one?"

"Don't worry. I'll handle it. I just would hate to see Ms. Fanning lose her brother so soon after she's lost her father. But I think there's another way."

Jackson felt the questions bubbling in his throat. He struggled with them, forcing them back. Instead, he said, "So when do you want me to leave for Florida?"

"There will be a package delivered to the condo in a few hours. It will contain your assignment. Study it. I'll call you when I have further instructions."

Closer and closer. Peter sounded…unsure of himself. As if he didn't have everything planned ten steps ahead. "Peter," he said, slipping.

"Yes, Jackson?"

"What's…" _Don't say it, you'll regret it._ "What's the job?"

"Everything is in the package." He could hear Peter smiling. "Don't worry yourself, Jackson. You're better when you aren't distracted. Don't think, just do. It's what you're best at." And he hung up.

Jackson bit his lip. This wasn't good. The suspicions that had been rumbling around in his guts were starting to manifest themselves in words. Vincent had some…hold, it seemed, on Peter. Peter was helping him, but at the same time, he was lining up Rochester to take him out. As if it were a game. Like he was playing chess against himself.

Jackson felt a chill. He would go back to the condo. He would not call Dr. Gregg as planned. He would do as he was told.

That was what he was best at.

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Callie's words had caught Rochester's attention. She could almost hear the struggle -- either believe her that it was a trap, cut and run, or ignore it because it was too obviously bait and continue tormenting her as he had planned.

Option B, at the moment, seemed to be in the lead, because his other hand had pushed the collar of her sleep shirt far enough over to expose her injured shoulder. He suddenly gave a hard tug on her bandage and ripped the cloth away.

"If you lived long enough," he told her, his voice still that low, sleek rumble of dark velvet, "this would leave a scar. Your children would ask you if you'd been bitten by a vampire. You can already see the teeth marks."

"If I lived long enough," she sighed. "Then again, there's also plastic surgery."

He chuckled. "I love how quick you are. We'll see how long it lasts, though." Without warning, he pulled up the shirt, and it gathered around her neck and then covered her face. He pressed down, and she was suffocating again, but worse, so much worse, was the fact that she was now very much naked. The humiliation hit her harshly, like a punch in the stomach. She wanted to curl up, try to shield herself, but he had her spread eagle.

"Mmmm…well, Vincent has better taste than I thought." His touched was gentle now, like a lover, and she tried to shut it out, tried to push it away. Then he grasped her to flip her over, and she couldn't stand it anymore. She grasped at the sheets, digging her hands in, pressing hard into the covers. She wasn't going to turn. She wasn't going to let him humiliate her any farther.

"Callie," he said with feigned patience, "you're only going to make it worse for yourself. Come on, don't piss me off."

She clung harder. Yes, she wanted to piss him off. Make him so mad that he shoved her so hard she would go rolling to the floor. On the floor, she had a chance. On the floor, she had the slightest possibility of getting to the gun.

A sudden plan flooded her brain like a spotlight. "Take this damn shirt off my head and I'll turn!"

He paused. Then, he made a gesture that might have been a shrug – she could only feel the vibration of the mattress, because her head was still enclosed in her stupid sleep shirt. "Fair enough." He yanked and it came off, and now she wore not a stitch of clothing.

She looked at him for a moment, and then threw her arms around his neck, bringing his face down to hers and kissing him passionately.

It was easier than she thought it would be. Rochester was physically attractive, and if she just shut her mind off to the knowledge of what he was, if she just looked at the shell and concentrated on the shell, she could do it. She could do this.

It threw him off. He was not expecting the sudden turn like this. For her to suddenly be eager for his advances only meant one thing – she was trying something. What, exactly, he couldn't imagine, but it was something.

He clamped his hands around her wrists and forced her back, pinning her to the bed. It put some air between them, and for the first time Callie could see he was dressed in one of his expensive silk suits. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What, you can dish it out but you can't take it?" she asked, wiggling her body suggestively. She pulled her legs up – he had his hands on her wrists and couldn't push them away – and wrapped them around his waist, linking her ankles at the small of his back. "Come on, baby, are you all talk and no show? Can't you get it up when a woman is willing?"

He gave her a look as if she were insane. Then, a very disturbing look came into his eyes. "Oh, you want to play it that way, huh, dirty girl?" He yanked her wrists, pulling her up and into him, so that she was now sitting on his lap in a very intimate position. He didn't let go of her wrists, however, but pinned them behind her back. "I should have expected this. You did fuck Vincent. Sometimes I'm thinking you're sicker in the head than him and me combined."

His lowered his head, and Callie fought a floodgate of sensation to keep her mind focused. She tugged at her wrists. "You going to let me go?"

He leered up at her. "I don't trust you that much, honey."

She smirked down at him. "Then how are we going to get your pants off?"

He chuckled darkly. "Still so quick. Fair point."

Callie gave him an equally twisted smile. She pulled back her ankles, trying to ignore the fact that this put some very private parts of hers very close to his. She was getting them under her to make it easier to leap. "So what are we going to do about it, sugar? You can't leave me hanging all night."

He shifted her wrists, keeping one over the other in an X, so that they were in one of his hands. He had very supple hands, muscular but with sleek, quick fingers. However, the concentration required to undo his fly took just a bit of slack out of his grip, and she was able to pull one hand free. Then, with all the energy she could muster, she slapped him hard across the jaw.

He took it. The flinch from the sharp sting was a gut reaction, but as he was bouncing back, she realized with horror that he was smiling. The flinch had caused his other hand to go slack for just a second, and she pulled her other wrist free quickly, and brought it forward to slap him in the other direction, almost as much to get the smile from his face as to free herself.

Then she dove. She tossed her weight over the side of the bed, grazing the blankets as she hit the carpeted floor. She got her foot into his gut and pressed, and managed to break free, getting on the floor and almost crawling clear, but she had to turn, and she knew that the second her hand went to the mattress, he would know she was going for a weapon.

He was a professional, like Vincent, after all.

He was very quick. On his feet, between her and the bed, now, and he was laughing. It was light, delighted laughter. It was harder to concentrate on the shell now, when the slime of a human soul that resided inside it was so clearly longing for damnation. And the fact that she was buck naked was not helping things.

"Oh Callie," he said, "I could love you, I swear I could. I could love you to death." He reached for her, but she kicked at him, enticing more giggles. She scrambled to her feet, realizing now that her last chance lay somehow in antagonizing him enough into throwing her toward the bed.

But how did one piss off a man who was this perverted?

He came toward her, and she slapped him again. He grabbed at her, dragging her into him, and managed to kiss her, good and hard, before letting her go, and laughing. She slapped him again, more angrily, but while it cut off the sound it did not stop his Joker-esque smile. He rubbed his cheeks, as if savoring the sensation.

"You know, I'd forgotten that one," he said, more to himself than to her. "It's one thing to let them fight, another to let them fight back."

She struck a third time, putting all her might behind it. This one got his lip pressed against his lower canine, and a trickle of blood appeared. He licked at it, and then, with just a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, he walloped her. Hard.

She rolled into it. It was easy to exaggerate because not much was required. Her head spun and her vision blurred, but she threw out her hands and grasped the edge of the mattress, and while her knees burned as they scuffed the carpeted floor, she struggled to hold onto her senses.

She groaned, doubling over against the side of the bed. She couldn't let him see what she was doing. She moved her head from side to side, as if delirious.

He approached, knelt down. His hands spread across her back, and she cringed at his touch. "Enough foreplay," he said, his voice clipped. "Time to get down to business."

"Some business," came Vincent's voice from behind them, and just then Callie heard several things hit the floor. It sounded like a pile of object being toppled over. One of them came flying in their direction, as if aimed, and it clipped off of Rochester's head, rolling onto the bed in front of them.

Callie looked over her shoulder. Somehow, Vincent had gotten the door open, although how, she had no clue, and had knocked over what Rochester had put in front of it as a safety precaution.

"What kind of stupid hotel puts the hinges on the outside?" Rochester snarled, and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her in front of him. He got his arm around her and held her flush against him, using her as a human shield. With his other hand, he reached behind him for something Callie couldn't see.

Vincent had his gun drawn. He looked -- Callie lost her breath upon realizing this -- exactly as he had looked that first night. The suit was almost the same light silvery shade of grey, and there was a terrible glint in Vincent's eyes, as he had both hands on his gun, aimed right at them.

"Well, I guess the party is just going to have to start early," Rochester said, lightly, as if the whole thing were a casual encounter and not the worst nightmare of Callie's life. Vincent was not looking at her, however. His eyes were tight on Rochester. His mouth had curled up into his contemptuous sneer, which told her how much he was concentrating on the moment.

"You always hide behind little girls?" Vincent taunted.

Rochester laughed, full and robust. "That's cute. Really. Like I'm going to believe for a second that the only reason I'm not dead is because I have my own personal shield." He pulled Callie's closer, and Callie attempted to slap at his arm with her hands, trying to distract him for even a second – Vincent was a crack shot. A second would be all he needed.

But Rochester did not fall for it for even that little second. Instead, he grabbed Callie's hands and pinned them against her own chest with his arm, tightening his hold so that her feet were nearly ready to leave the carpet. She could feel his mouth against the back of her ear as he spoke.

"You're not going to risk it," Rochester said in a conversational tone. "You might be able to get me in the forehead, but the chance that you'll get her instead is just too big. And you're not going to take that chance, not even for a second."

"I did use her as bait," Vincent said, deadpan. "I'm feeling a little reckless tonight."

"Ha ha," Rochester said, bitingly. "As if I don't know I've got the most valuable thing in Vincent's world exactly where you don't want her. Don't play me, old man, I'm too far ahead of you." He raised his hand and a very ugly knife came into view, a switchblade that glinted in the morning light. Callie drew in her breath as it seemed to float closer to her. "Put it down."

It was Vincent's turn to smile, although in his current state it was much more of a leer. "You won't kill her. Not like that. It'd spoil your fun. And if she dies, you do to."

"Oh, I don't have to kill her, Vincent," Rochester returned coolly. "I just have to hurt her." Without warning, he brought the knife up and ran it along her shoulder. The edge was so sharp she almost didn't feel it, but a few seconds later she felt a strange tickling, and then a burning as her own blood started to run down her skin. She stifled her scream – screaming would not help her. Rochester wanted her to scream and if she did, who knew what Vincent would do? He might fire, and hit her instead. He might put the gun down, and then they were both dead.

"Cute," Vincent said, his face getting more rigid. "Won't work."

"Won't it?" Rochester mocked. "Right now she's trying hard not to scream. She's brave, I'll give her that." The knife moved again, pushing deeper, just below the first cut. This time she made a grunt before she caught herself. "She'll break. They always break."

Vincent's eyebrows were slowly merging together into one. "This is between us."

"Oh, that lame line," Rochester laughed. He paused the knife, this time on the curve of her upper arm, as if he were getting ready to slice a potato. "You're really not used to the whole talking thing, are you?"

He sliced. He sliced deep. Her screech was muffled in the back of her throat but her eyes closed and her face contorted. She looked and felt bile rise in her throat when she saw how dark and thick the blood was running, and could even see the layers of skin and fat and muscle he had cut through. Her arm trembled with shock and pain.

"If I put the gun down," Vincent said, "you let her go."

"This isn't a negotiation," Rochester said, as if Vincent were a stupid child. "You put the gun down. End of story."

"Why?" Vincent asked. "Give me a reason. What do I get out of it?"

Rochester seemed to consider this. True, men in their line of work did not negotiate. They simply did.

"I'll stop cutting her," Rochester said, offering a carrot. "But I'm going to count to five, Vincent. Each number and she loses a little more blood. At five, I go for the throat." He moved the knife up a few inches and pressed the tip hard. "One." Blood oozed out, and this time she couldn't muffle the screech enough.

Callie looked at Vincent. "Don't do it…ah…!"

"Two." He had moved higher, on the curve of her shoulder, and had pulled the knife back, making a very deep gash right across the front part of the joint.

Vincent seemed to be pulling back with the gun. Callie looked at his eyes, trying to read him. She didn't want him to put the gun down – it would make him…powerless. She had seen Vincent take out men, unarmed when they had their guns pointed in his face, but she had not seen this.

She had not seen him truly weak.

She realized, as Rochester said the word "three," and sliced across her clavicle, that she had done this. She had made Vincent weak. Her sin had not only been against herself and her self-serving pleasure, she had also damaged him. The mechanism that made him so dangerous had failed him, because he was not doing what the Vincent she had first met in the back of her cab would have done.

Her regret doubled, if not tripled. "Vincent," she said, meaning to encourage him, meaning to tell him to let Rochester take as many chunks out of her as he wanted, _but don't put down your gun! _Instead, she heard herself saying, "I'm sorry. God I'm so saaa--!"

The knife was slipping along the base of her throat, the point going into the hollow. As if he was tracing a line for her to be beheaded. Rochester was smiling against her ear. "Four."

Vincent turned the gun in his hand, showing it to Rochester before putting it on the carpet. "Fine," he said, his voice raw, straining against panic. "Just stop!"

The knife point had just been pressed against her jugular – she knew it because she could feel her pulse pounding against it. Then, gently, he took it away. He stepped forward, dragging Callie with him, and stepped on Vincent's gun, shoving it far behind him. She heard it hit the wall. Then, taking a step back, Rochester tossed her down, and she crumpled into a bloody heap right against the bed.

Against the mattress, where Vincent had put the other gun.


	20. I've Got All This Ringing In My Ears

Disclaimer: Wish I could offer an excuse. Afraid I can't. Here's an update. I've been psyching myself up to finish this. Watching "Knight and Day" got me appreciating Tom Cruise again. But in the meanwhile…

Chapter Twenty: I've Got All This Ringing In My Ears…

Rochester looked down at Vincent, a knowing gleam in his eye. "You know, I never thought I'd say it, but you are one sad man."

Vincent twitched – his chin moved to the right a bit, his lips pursed just slightly, and he straightened the lapels of his jacket, then stood with his legs spread apart a little. He was irritated. To be talked down to by someone like Rochester was definitely annoying.

"I mean, you were a legend," Rochester said, with just a touch of awe in his voice. "You could move faster than…well, anything I'd ever seen. You were the Flash. The evil Flash, anyway."

Vincent did a mental inventory. He always kept a switchblade in his pocket. Rochester wasn't foolish enough to come closer – he had kicked the gun away, smart enough. And he probably was packing his own piece, just out of sight.

"I mean, what the fuck!" Rochester gestured with both hands, down, towards Callie's naked back. She looked like she was attempting to recover a shred of her modesty. But Vincent saw her hand slip between the mattress and the box-spring. If Rochester looked over, he'd see what she was doing.

"Yes," Vincent said. "I'm sorry, your point?"

"So you fuck a girl, and now you actually care what happens to her," Rochester said, frustrated. "You know, the worst part of all of this is that you're actually stupid enough to think that Peter is backing you up on your lamebrain moves."

Vincent raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think he isn't?"

"How the hell do you think I even found you here? How do you think I knew exactly where you would be? How I even got into your hotel room? He set you up, Vincent! He had fucking Jackson Rippner drive your girl here to the airport! You knew perfectly well Jackson was working with me…are you really that thick?"

"I'm not," Vincent said, "but I was betting that you would be."

Rochester laughed. "Oh, yeah, the talk about me saying I wanted to work on my own. Please, Vincent. Nobody works on their own. He told you that to bait you."

Coolly, Vincent raised an eyebrow. "And you care because…why? Why tell me all of this? Unless you're trying to throw me off. That's the only reason you'd have to talk so much. We're at a stalemate, Chess, and you're stalling for time."

Rochester's brow darkened, and he suddenly reached out and snatched Callie by the top of her hair, closest to the scalp, where it hurt the most. The knife, still wet with her blood, went to rest on the soft tissue of her left breast, just below the nipple.

"You want to see me stall?" he said, his voice unnaturally calm. "Let's see if she's as pretty with her tits cut off."

Callie had the gun. She swung her arm around to press the barrel right against his ribcage. But she didn't move fast enough. Rochester looked down, saw what she was about to do, and then shoved her – more like hurled her with all his might. She went flying, the gun going off, shattering the table lamp. She collided into Vincent, who caught her in one arm and cradled her fall against his chest, but his other arm slid down hers, going to the gun and very smoothly removing it from her grip. Then, in the same fluid motion, he rolled her away from him, thrusting her almost behind him, toward the bathroom door.

Rochester was already pulling out his hold-out gun, and he made a great leap so that he was on top of the mattress, going to the other side. He shoved back on the mattress as he landed on the floor, bringing it up, creating a flimsy distraction so that Vincent couldn't get a clear aim.

Vincent, however, knowing Rochester was armed and not loaded with a potential casualty, grabbed Callie and headed the other direction, for the bathroom. He wanted to fire – just a few shots, one of them had a good chance of hitting – but knew that any blasts of the gun would bring security running. It was bad enough as it was – someone was going to come by and find the door removed from its hinges. So he kept going, into the bathroom. He slammed the door shut and locked it. Then he rounded on Callie and shoved her into the oversized bathtub.

"Get down," he said, throwing the extra towels at her. "Get down and stay down and don't come up unless I tell you, understand?"

Callie nodded, grateful for the covering, but shaking. She should have been quicker with the gun. Hadn't Ray gone through trouble to teach her about firing in close range? Apparently it had either been too long since her last lesson, or all this trauma had knocked all her sense out of her head. She lay against the cool, dry porcelain of the tub, on her left side, not her right, and realized she was just under the faucet.

She was suddenly terribly, horribly thirsty.

Vincent turned back toward the door. He stood between her in the tub and the locked entrance, so tense he seemed to be humming. Callie had seen this before. It felt like it had in the alley – she didn't know what was going to happen, what he was going to do, but she knew that whatever happened, he would meet each action with an equal and opposite reaction.

But truth be told, she realized as the pain and numbness – amazing how those two walked hand in hand – started to glaze over her right side, it was not the same. So far, Vincent hadn't really done anything. He hadn't even gotten her away from Rochester – _she_ had done that. And rather stupidly – she could have gotten both her and Vincent killed.

Then again, it was Vincent's smarts that had planted that gun. He had planted the gun and…and left the room. He had said that he shouldn't leave her! Then why the hell had he done it? Anger swelled, and she lifted up her head.

"I _was_ bait!" she cried. "You set me up!"

The gun blast came through the top part of the door first, where Vincent's head might have been if he'd gotten closer. He backed up, stepping into the tub as the trail of bullet holes got closer and closer. Then more bullets, spaced more sporadically. Obviously Rochester knew he wasn't hitting anything meaningful. Vincent pressed himself against the tile wall and seemed to be counting.

Finally, it stopped. Vincent waited a few moments more, and then slowly, creeping like a cat, he went to the door and pulled it open.

Very wisely, he was not in front of it, but behind it.

Then, he charged around the door and disappeared into the room. There were no shots. No sound of footsteps, not even Vincent's. Then, she heard him call, softly, "He's gone."

Callie lay on the floor of the tub. She could no longer stand it. She reached up and turned on the cold, letting a thin stream trickle down. She lay her lips against it and sucked it into her mouth. She couldn't stand this, this waiting! And her arm and chest were hurting so damn much! It was like burning, that's what it was. A bright, red, searing pain. As if the flesh were remembering, over and over, how it had been severed from itself.

Cupping her hand under the water, she carefully ladled it over her wounds. There was one really bad one, that didn't seem to want to stop bleeding. She pressed one of the towels against it, but it seemed that only made it worse.

Suddenly Vincent was squatting over her, reaching into the tub. He took her towel and started to pat her dry, efficiently and quickly. "We have to move," he said, his voice clipped and authoritative. "We don't want to be here when local law enforcement shows up. This isn't America, they don't do due process like we do."

Callie opened her mouth, but seemed to be cut off by the fact that Vincent was not listening to her at all now. He had grabbed up what was left of the first aid kit and had unrolled the bandage. Deftly, he slapped a thick pad of gauze against her arm, over the deepest cut, and then wound the bandage around it, tying it very tightly. It seemed to help the pain just a little bit. "Come on," he said, slapping her back lightly. "I'll get you clothes, you get your ass out of that tub. We gotta go quickly."

"Go where?" she managed, hauling herself up, but Vincent was in the other room now, in the closet, and he yanked out a pair of very expensive jeans – courtesy of the overpriced boutique downstairs – and a loose, flowery top.

"Come on," he urged, and it seemed as if he were going to dress her himself if she couldn't move faster. He had the top over her head and pulled her arms through it – not so roughly that it hurt but more quickly than she could have managed on her own in this state. He lowered the jeans so that she could step into them, and she looked at the back of his head as if he'd lost his mind and she were searching for his missing brain.

"What are you doing?" she finally managed.

"Shitting where I eat," he said, and there was real disgust in his previously emotionless tone. "Come on." He tapped her legs and she stepped into the jeans. He yanked them up hard, almost lifting her off the ground, but got them up around her waist and zipped shut even as she objected.

"You're not my mother and I'm not five!" she barked, slapping his hands away and adjusting the zipper and snap. Then she flinched at the use of her arm. "And I could have used some fucking underwear!"

"No time, come on," he said, reaching next into the closet and producing a black satchel, very similar to the one he'd had in L.A. that night so long ago – and not really even a full month ago by the calendar – then extending his hand to her. "Come on!" he urged, more snappish, and snagged her fingers in his to drag her out the door.

8888888888888888

In a short while, Callie found herself stuffed down on the floor between the passenger seat and the dashboard of a very large and expensive SUV. Where Vincent had gotten it, she didn't know, nor at this point did she care. She simply accepted that he had probably stolen in – boosting cars seemed to be a major skill required on a hitman's résumé.

She felt dirty. Not just from the dried blood – although that was incredibly annoying – but from the whole experience. Exasperation had turned her mute as her brain churned over the recent events, trying to make some kind of sense out of them. Or at least get them straight in her mind.

Something Vincent had said stung her. She glanced up at him periodically, trying not to stare but pretty much failing. He had insisted she sit on the floor, down and out of sight. At first she thought that it was because she was a bloody mess – the wound on her arm had soaked the flimsy bandage Vincent had earlier attempted to apply, and the other various slashes Rochester had made on her skin had crusted for the most part, but still throbbed dully. Then she figured it was because of some plan Vincent had worked out in his head, three steps ahead of anyone else and ten ahead of her, for all she knew.

It came to her, quickly, materializing in her head as if placed there by some transporter beam. "Which one am I, Vincent?" she asked him.

It took him a second to hear her. He was in his "mode," his head slightly bent, his nostrils occasionally flaring. He blinked and looked down at her, not so much that his eyes weren't still on the road – if that's what this thing they were on that was causing all this horrid bumping and shuffling could be called – but enough for her to see that he had no idea what she was talking about.

"Which one am I?" she asked again, daring him to remember.

"Which what?" he asked, clipped, annoyed.

"The shitting or the eating. Which one am I?"

He blinked again, two or three times, and she finally lost her patience. "You said you were shitting where you ate before, when I asked you what you were doing. So which one am I? The shitting or the eating?"

He frowned, ever so slightly. "I hardly think this is the time to have this discussion," he said in a tone that was actually polite.

She snorted. "Well, maybe not for you, but considering I'm the one stuffed down here with nothing else to do but bleed into the seats, I thought we'd just get a few things out in the open."

For some insane reason, that made him crack his infamous half-smile. "Oh, well, if we're being open, you were probably the eating." And he gave her a look that made her flush. It didn't help with the pain.

After she didn't pursue it for a moment, Vincent went on, this time without the innuendo. "You were the one who decided it was all a mistake. You're allowed to do that and I'm not? Sounds like a double standard to me."

"It was a mistake because it was morally wrong, not because – " She stopped herself, choking on the next words because she could not, would not admit at this moment how emotionally attached she had become to him. It was not a sane person's thing to say.

"So you say." So damn calm now, as if they were just having a casual chit chat during a Sunday afternoon drive. "So your grounds are moral. Mine are professional. Professionally, what happened was a mistake. I think I took your evaluation rather well—"

"Oh, sure, if by _well,_ you mean leaving me in a hotel room as _bait_—"

"—and handled the situation as best I could under the circumstances." But suddenly he didn't look so confident. His eyes narrowed and his jaw twitched, and by now Callie could read him well enough to know that he was unsure.

Another pause, this one longer and much more awkward. Finally, unable to stand it, Callie said, "Where are we going?"

"A safe house," was the brief reply.


End file.
